


The Garden

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Androids, Character Study, Consent Issues, Conspiracy, Dark, Determinism, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Season Compliant Alternate Universe, Free Will, Gen, Graphic Violence, Illusions, M/M, Memory, Mind Control, Murder, Original Character(s), Philosophy, Predestination, Psychic Bond, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, Virtual Reality, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(SCI-FI ALTERNATE UNIVERSE)</p><p>In the aftermath of Peter Hale's death, Stiles and Derek have a heated argument that results in Derek accidentally establishing a psychic bond with Stiles.</p><p>Derek is (seemingly) abducted and subsequently reunited with an old enemy only to discover a disturbing conspiracy that changes his perspective on the events of the past.</p><p>Stiles tries to keep the pack from falling apart while simultaneously searching for Derek, and together with Danny, he learns that the town of Beacon Hills is not exactly what it seems to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

_What if all the world's inside of your head?_

__ _Just creations of your own..._

_Your devils and your gods, all the living and the dead_

_And you really are alone_

_You can live in this illusion_

_You can choose to believe_

_You keep looking but you can't find words_

_Are you hiding in the trees?_

__

\- Trent Reznor 

__

***

_I am awake_. 

It’s the first thought that crosses his mind; it comes unbidden, as if projected into his subconscious from some other host.

It comes again, even stronger and more self-assured: _I am awake._ He doesn’t even know what the words mean, not entirely. He doesn’t know his own name, or where he is, or the time of day, or anything about _anything_ , really. His mind is a blank slate; there are no memories to be found. As if everything’s been erased or scrambled. He’s lost and alone.

Shifting as best he can, he blinks away sleep and registers his surroundings with steadily increasing panic. It all comes to him in bits and pieces: he’s in a small space, enclosed. It’s soft and red. [Red. _Red._ That’s a color. That’s what _that_ word means.] It’s a soft, red sac, amniotic like a womb. And he’s inside it, and he’s naked.  [Nakedness. Absence of something. Bareness. No clothes. Exposed.] And his breath is coming in ragged, and he cannot see through the membrane of this fleshy prison. 

A spotlight bursts into existence, beaming in through the pulsating walls, and he presses his hands up against the sides of the enclosure, seeking to push through, trying to reach  out and grab at the harsh glow. But his muscles are weary, he’s exhausted for some inexplicable reason, and his efforts are completely futile.

The light comes closer [it burns his eyes], and with its approach, there arrives a low hum [a sound, it throbs in his ears], a deep and steady thrumming that causes the walls to vibrate. _Motors_ , he thinks. _It’s the sound of an engine, of spinning rotor blades_. 

Rubbing his eyes to power through the bleariness of his vision, he sees a thin, dark shape moving toward him, silhouetted by the brightness of the light. There’s another sound, higher-pitched than the last one, and then a terrifying _tearing_ , ripping noise, and then a tiny spinning saw is cutting in through the crimson pulp of his cage.

And the rest of it happens incredibly fast: dark liquid seeping in through the cracks, and he’s pushing and twisting and flailing, and then he’s falling out into a deep, vast body of water [is it water?] that chills him to the very bone, and the pressure is immense, unbearable. He has no air, he cannot breathe, and the blackness is nearly impenetrable, nothing is visible expect for the great dark shapes in the distance and the blinding spotlight above him.

Something large, something mechanical [like a crane] seizes him by the middle, pulling him up and up and up until the water begins to swish and churn around him, and then he’s being lifted _through_ something, through a porthole, and now he can breathe, and he does - loud and harsh and practically sobbing for oxygen.

He’s lying prostrate, curled up on the floor, and he can sense a presence, another being in the room with him. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and its touch is cold and metallic, but he doesn’t shrug it away, doesn’t have the energy.

“You’re fine.” Another sound, a voice this time. It’s soft and gentle, and the soothing rhythms of the speaker’s cadence push him to the edge of sleep.

_Derek_ , he thinks, just before he gives in to unconsciousness. _My name is Derek._

__

_Derek Hale._

***

When he swims once more to the surface of a restless sleep, he finds the sensation of waking distinctly different than the last. Despite the current haywire status of his internal clock, he can estimate that he’s been passed out for no longer than a day, two at the most. 

Not like last time. Not like being reborn.

Opening his eyes to the fullest extent, he sees that he’s in a white room, lying flat on his back on a firm, uncovered mattress. It’s small and square and lit by large fluorescent lights, and the walls and floors are smooth as marble. The walls are bare and the room is largely unfurnished, apart from the iron bed-frame nailed tightly to the ground and the glass rectangular table sitting innocently in the center of the tiles.

There are two doors, one on either side of the room. Acting on instinct, claustrophobia beginning to descend upon him, he stands and moves for the door on the right. Locked, of course.

He goes to try the left, and he finds that it opens with ease. It’s a bathroom: a toilet, a sink, and a bathtub with a shower nozzle attached on the wall. All white, all pristine. There’s a little bar of soap, itself wrapped in a pretty little white package, set with care in the center spot of the shower rack. 

This place is eerily clean, perfectly polished. [‘Antiseptic’ comes to mind.]

Turning to return to the main room, he sees a small oval mirror mounted on the wall above the sink. It’s a jolt to the system, a moment of recognition as he sees himself [ _That’s me_ , he thinks] reflected in the unblemished looking glass.

Derek Hale. That’s his name. That’s who he is.

He’s wearing a t-shirt with a v-neck and long, soft pants. All white, of course, as that seems to be the theme.

He looks - no, _stares_ \- at himself, and he’s not sure what’s wrong, but something feels out of place. He takes it all in: the pointed, angular nose swooping down between those piercing eyes. Lashes dark and prickly beneath thick eyebrows. A flat forehead creased with lines of worry, and black, uncombed hair sticking up from his scalp. It’s _his_ face, no doubt. It’s really him. But he can’t shake the nagging sensation that this is the first time he’s seeing it; or at least the first time seeing it in this way. Something’s different. Something’s new.

Thin strands of chest hair poke out from the swoop of the neck cut in the shirt. There’s something wrong about this as well. It’s his skin; it’s pale, bloodless. Like he’s never seen sunlight. His body aches with soreness, and his muscles strain with every movement.

_What the hell is happening to me?_

There’s a scraping, chinking sound from the main room, and he hurries back, shoulders tensing in preparation as his fight-or-flight instincts kick in.

As he rounds the corner from the bathroom, he sees a gloved hand retreating through a thin flap in the other door. A silver plate of steaming hot food lies in its place, sitting on the ground on a tray.

Derek patters over, bare feet slapping against the cool tiles, and he crouches low, pushing the plate aside without a second glance and lifting the flap to squint out through the opening. There’s nothing in sight. Just an empty hallway, dark and unlit. No sign of life.

He wants to yell out, call something. But he finds his voice wavering uselessly, tongue a dead weight in his mouth. He’s startled to realize that he can think of no words to say.

Dropping the metal flap to clatter back against the door, he sits heavily, grunting as he leans against the wall. The heated aroma from the plate tickles at his nose, and he coughs several times to prevent the oncoming sneeze.

_Fish_ , he thinks, looking at the tender pink slices lying against the silver. Then he sees the note: a folded piece of paper, tucked between the plate and the tray beneath it. He reaches for it without much thought, unfolding it and squinting at the loopy scrawl.

It reads:  Take time to recover. Your memory will return. Talk soon. Eat the fish.

He crumples the page, tossing it angrily across the room. Feeling defiant, without much reason, he grabs the tray and pushes back through the slit in the door. Returning to bed, drowsiness comes over him, quickly and without warning.

Before sleeping once again, it occurs to him that the handwriting looks familiar.

***

The first string of memories comes like a revelation. He’s in his room - his _cell_ , more like - pacing around the perimeter in search of escape, and it hits him like a blinding flash:

The night before. His conversation with Stiles. Back at the house; _his_ house, his childhood home. The place he’s been temporarily staying because of...

[Laura.]

...because of his sister’s murder. He’d returned home, come back to Beacon Hills, and he’d been living in that burned out shell while he sought out her killer.

[Peter. Uncle.]

Murdered by her own flesh and blood, murdered for the power to destroy the fire-starters.

[Kate Argent.]

Kate, who’d seduced and abandoned him, wrecked him sexually, ruined any chance he’d ever have of entering into a normal, healthy relationship with anyone.

Or so he’d thought.

The night before. He remembers it clearly:

Packing up his belongings, just a few basic articles of clothing in a small green duffel bag. The petulant child [Jackson] lying bleeding on the floor, clutching the gushing wound in his shoulder, tears in his eyes as he whimpers at the sting of pain.

“You’ll live,” Derek says, annoyed, not even bothering to look at him. “I didn’t even hit a major artery.”

“But I’ll have it, right?” Jackson asks, eyes all wide with worry and fear. “I’ll be a werewolf? I’ll be special?”

Derek snorts, slinging the strap of the bag over his shoulder and turning for the door. “You’ll be a werewolf,” he says distastefully. “Congratulations.”

And that should be it. He’s ready to leave and he’s halfway out the door, but then the twin headlights of the Jeep illuminate the front of the house, blaring angrily in Derek’s eyes, and he knows he’s not going to avoid the conversation after all.

The engine rumbles monotonously for a second or two, and the lights stay on, framing Derek’s figure in the doorway of the porch; like Stiles isn’t sure whether or not he really wants to get out of the car. But, of course, the flash flicks off and the motor’s grumble ceases abruptly, and the boy comes bounding out through the driver’s side, keys in hand and an outraged expression on his face. Derek can smell his frustration, his anger, his fear.

“What the hell is this?” Stiles snaps, waving his arms animatedly, glaring up with his chin jutted out. In spit of himself, Derek can’t help but be a little impressed with the kid’s moxie; Stiles has never really asserted himself this way before.

“What the hell is what?” Derek replies cooly, setting the bag down on the hardwood with a sigh. Conversations with Stiles are almost never brief. He might as well get comfortable.

“This!” Stiles points at the bag, at Derek, flaps around in some vague gesture. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Derek sighs again, folding his arms across his chest. He matches Stiles’ glare, but the boy doesn’t back down. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he says. “Especially ones you already know the answer to.” When Stiles doesn’t say anything, he continues, “I’m leaving, alright. Happy? Not that I owe you an answer.” He leans back against the wall beside the doorframe. Jerking his head toward the open space, he says, “It was never supposed to be permanent. Living in this place. I came back to find out who killed my sister, and I did. There’s nothing holding me here anymore.”

Stiles glares harder. “Bullshit,” he grits out. “You have Scott to look after, since you decided it’s more important to be Alpha than to let him have a normal life. You have to help us figure out what to do with Lydia once she wakes up. And Jackson.”

“I think Jackson’s got everything figured out already,” Derek says drily. Stiles frowns questioningly, but the low moan from inside the house seems to clear up his confusion. Shooting Derek a disbelieving look, he pushes past him through the doorway to go and kneel beside Jackson on the floor.

The blood flow has stopped, but he’s still shivering, eyes rolled back in his skull so the whites are showing. He’s unconscious, murmuring nonsensically when Stiles presses a palm against his forehead to check his temperature.

“He’s burning up,” Stiles mutters, looking up at Derek while he pets Jackson’s hair soothingly. “What the fuck, Derek? Why’d you do this?”

“He asked for it,” Derek answers simply, honestly. “Multiple times, actually. I just gave him what he wanted.”

“Please.” Stiles scoffs derisively. “He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know what he wants. And he hasn’t seen everything we have, so he doesn’t know any better. But _you_ do. Or at least, you’re supposed to.”

Derek glowers. “Stiles,” he growls. A warning.

It goes unheeded. “I know your psycho uncle bit Scott because he was morally screwy, but you’re better than that.”

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep his anger in check, Derek huffs a sharp breath. He can feel the shift rising up inside him, and he struggles to keep it under. The look on Stiles’ face tells him the boy knows exactly what’s going on in his head. “What is this really about?” Derek snarls. “And don’t give me some line of crap about _him_.” He jerks his head irritably at Jackson’s prone form. “What are you so upset about? Tell me.” He bares his teeth, eyes flashing red. “Now.”

Stiles chuckles bitterly, and while Derek can smell his fear - with a great deal of satisfaction - there’s also a flare of something else, something stronger. Whatever it is, it’s stronger than the fear, and it’s emboldened Stiles to come here tonight and face down an Alpha werewolf without backup. And Derek has to admit, grudgingly, that takes real guts.

“Why are you leaving?” Stiles asks. “And _you_ don’t give _me_ that line of crap about being finished with your business here. Like it or not, I know enough about you by now to be pretty damn sure you wouldn’t abandon us like this. You wouldn’t leave us to clean up a mess like this all by ourselves.” Pressing his hands against his knees, he rises to his feet with a grunt. “Not unless there was something else overriding your duty to the pack.” He takes a step closer, and it’s so unexpected, Derek actually stumbles backwards a little. “What is it, Derek?” Stiles asks, soft and probing, eyes big and round with curiosity. “Why are you leaving?”

Angry at himself for giving up the dominant role in this exchange, Derek bristles, drawing himself up to full height in an attempt to intimidate the teenager into submission. “Don’t test me. I already gave you my answer.”

Unflinching, Stiles moves closer, determined. “I helped save your life,” he says, and his voice is shaky, but he sounds as though he’s steeled himself to plow through this. “On more than one occasion, I might add. I know you think I’m useless, and you don’t really like me that much, but I like to think that going through near-death experiences together tends to bring people closer. And I think you _do_ owe me an explanation. Because if you leave, I’m stuck with a best friend who’s stuck being a werewolf, an almost-but-not-really-at-all girlfriend stuck in the hospital, and _this_ bozo.” He points at Jackson, but keeps his eyes trained on Derek’s, staring unblinkingly into the red orbs. “If you’re going to stick me with that lot with no help whatsoever, you’d damn better have a good reason.”

Derek seizes the front of his shirt, spinning them both around so Stiles’ back is pressed up hard against the wall. They’ve been this position before, quite a few times, if Derek’s being honest with himself. 

To Stiles it’s probably nothing, just another instance of someone beating up on him because he’s smaller and meeker, easy to bend, easy to break. To Derek it’s a constant internal war. His wolf screaming _WantHaveTakeBiteKissFuck_ , urging him to touch the younger boy as often as possible, to mark him with his scent, to give in to the desire to bite, to lay claim to that untouched virginal flesh. His humanity screaming back _No fucking way_. 

There’s a whole host of reasons why he shouldn’t give in, shouldn’t go for this. Not least of all because of the age difference, because he’s been in love before and been burned [nearly literally], because the two of them are polar opposites in numerous respects. His animal instinct shouldn’t be what drives a decision of this magnitude, and he’s been repeating that in his head over and over again. It’s what he’s telling himself _now_ , but with Stiles _here_ and wide-eyed and hot-blooded and alive, it’s becoming harder to listen to the voice of common sense.

“Why do you care so much?” Derek grinds out, practically choking on his own rage and arousal. “You said it yourself, we don’t like each other. So why are you trying to get me to stay?”

Stiles cocks his head, like a fucking dog, and it really shouldn’t be cute, but it is. It ought to make him look stupid, but it doesn’t. “I never said I didn’t like you,” Stiles mumbles, and his face is flushed and heated and he’s biting his lower lip and his eyes are darkening, pupils dilated with _something_ , and _fuck_ Derek’s through resisting.

He tightens his grip on the front of Stiles’ shirt, reaching around with his other hand to jerk the boy’s head back, leaning down to nuzzle his cheek in the crook of Stiles’ neck, to breathe in his scent and seal his mouth over the bulging veins and run his tongue along the perspiring skin.

He hears Stiles’ gasp of surprise, feels the tremor that runs through his body, and he sees the confusion on the kid’s face when he pulls back to gauge the reaction. Stiles’ heartbeat is through the roof, running rampant, irregular. His breathing is staggered, shallow.

“I...you, but...w-?” He’s spluttering, gibberish. Eyes panicked. He’s afraid, and Derek feels a rush of guilt, but there’s an under-taste, a thick aroma of arousal spiking up rapidly, and it overrides the werewolf’s sense of reason.

He tilts Stiles’ chin upward and leans in to cover the boy’s mouth with his own. It’s not tender or chaste, not gentle. It’s desperate and wanting, and Derek hates the needy little sound he makes as he thrusts his tongue in deeper, but Stiles is reacting - he’s _responding_ \- and even if that’s only out of instinct, Derek’s willing to proceed. He’ll take what he can get. 

There’s a shock, a sort of electric thrill that runs along the length of the veins in his arms, swelling in his chest and rising up through his neck and prickling at the place where his mouth is slanted harshly against Stiles’. They both feel it, and they jerk apart with a gross, wet popping sound. There’s a brief pause, then Stiles’ hands come up to press against Derek’s chest, pushing him away. Forcefully, but not violent by any means.

Derek stumbles back a few feet, and the thought _What the fuck did I just do?_ crosses his mind. Stiles is staring at him like he’s never seen him properly before, eyes practically bugging out of his skull.

“But, I - but...Derek?” he chokes out. 

And he _is_ definitely afraid now. Confused, too. And Derek’s guilt comes back full force, and he shudders as a burst of self-hatred twists in his stomach.

He shifts, reverting to his Alpha form, and he barrels out through the open doorway, ignoring the voice calling after him, leaving the two boys alone in the house.

The duffel bag lies forgotten on the porch.

And then the memory fades, and Derek’s throwing up in the bathroom sink of his tiny white prison cell, slimy green bile sloshing in the squeaky clean bowl.

_I kissed him_ , Derek thinks, disgusted with himself. _I kissed him, and then I ran away. And now I’m here. Wherever ‘here’ is._

He wipes the residual slobber off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, leans back against the wall, banging his forehead gently on the edge of the tub.

_What the fuck is going on?_

***

Things continue in this manner for about a week, maybe more. He’s still unclear on the passage of time. There are no windows, so he can’t tell when it’s night or day, and the room is conspicuously absent of any electronic devices. No clocks or watches.

He’ll just be pacing in the cage - because that’s what it _is_ \- and a thought or feeling will strike him at random; sometimes a coherent memory of a significant event or person in his life, other times a brief flash. An image, maybe. Things in his past.

Moments out of time:

Blinking up into the softly glowing eyes of his mother and father as they smile down proudly upon him, their son. Their baby boy.

Running through the forest with his sister, catching small animals in their teeth for sport and play, chasing each other and nipping at shoulders and at ears, smiling and laughing and happy.

Swimming down at the watering hole, splashing in the murky water peppered with leaves and grime, watched over from above by his aunt and uncle. 

[Peter Hale: groaning in agony as he reaches out to grasp at the charred remains of his relatives in the fire; eyes glinting with madness as he bares down on Stiles in the hospital corridor; choking for air as he lies on the forest floor, blood gushing out through the rips in his jugular, light dimming in his twin glowing orbs.]

Being introduced to Kate Argent, who laughs at his jokes even though he’s just a lame teenager and makes him feel special and interesting and worthwhile.

Drinking in the taste of her tongue against his as he fumbles out of his clothes and helps her with her blouse in the backseat of her car, and wondering how in the hell someone like him could ever get this lucky.

Tears pouring down his face in messy streaks as the remnants of his home lie in dark piles of rubble, thick smoke still curling up in noxious clouds as the firefighters blast away what remains of the flames. Embers still glowing hot against the rich soil. The smell of cooked meat and bone permeating the surrounding area.

Stepping onto the bus and heading for the city without a second look back, vowing never to return to the place of his birth.

Returning years later to bring his sister’s killer to justice.

[Laura Hale: caressing his shoulder in a gesture of comfort when he’s twelve years old and scared of the thunderstorm outside; hugging him tight when the girl he has a crush on doesn’t return his affections; pale body lying in the dirt, covered in the muck and grime of the earth as her corpse stares up at the sky with unseeing eyes.]

Training Scott, the whiny child, trying to teach him how to fucking _exist_ in his new state of being. A curse, he calls it. Not a gift, not an alternative way of living. A lesser form. A weakness.

Meeting Stiles for the first time.

[Stiles Stilinski: cracking jokes at all the wrong times for all the right reasons, loyal to a friend who never repays the effort, ignored by the populous because he doesn’t blend in to the fabric of normality. A brave kid. Alternately terrified and intrigued by Derek. Curious about death, but not morbidly so. Just interested.]

Slamming Stiles against various surfaces; walls, cars, tables. Marking him up with his scent, laying claim out of instinct, defending his territory. Even as he hates himself for it.

So, yes. The memories all come back, flooding in like a tidal wave of joy and despair, experiences both private and shared.

Mostly private. Mostly despair.

***

_Derek kissed me._

It’s the thought that sticks in Stiles’ mind, the thing that keeps him convinced that there’s more going on here than meets the eye.

To everyone else, the situation is exactly what it seems like.

“Face it, dude,” Scott says absently, a wry smile curling at the corners of his mouth as he silently reads a text from Allison, “he’s gone. Flown the coop. He got what he came for, and now that it’s over with, he has no reason to stick around.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Stiles insists, lying on Scott’s bedspread, frowning up at the ceiling and tossing his lacrosse ball up in the air. “Isn’t there, like, some sort of werewolf law about sticking with your pack? I mean, if he’s the Alpha now, and you were supposed to be in Peter’s pack, doesn’t that make you...uh, I dunno. A transfer Beta, or something?”

“A transfer Beta?” Scott looks up from his phone to spare his friend a skeptical glance. “Yeah right. And anyway, how am I supposed to know? You’re the research geek.”

Stiles scowls. “I take offense to that.” He catches the ball and rolls it around in his hand, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “But seriously, though. I know Derek’s not exactly our best friend or anything, but he seems like a good enough guy. I really don’t think he’d just leave us without a word.”

“A good enough guy?” Scott repeats disbelievingly. The phone lies in his lap, forgotten. “He totally screwed me, man.” Stiles wrinkles his nose, and Scott rolls his eyes. “Not literally, idiot. You know what I mean.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He sits up with a grunt, scooting back to lean against the headboard. “But even so, you understand why he did it, right?”

Scott stares. “You’re not actually defending him, are you?”

“No,” Stiles says hastily. “Well...yes. Sort of. Not entirely.” He raises his palms in a gesture of surrender, warding off Scott’s indignant huff. “I’m just saying he had a good reason to be the one to off Peter. You know? The psycho killed his sister.” Then, slyly trying to appeal to Scott’s emotions, “How would you feel if someone killed Allison? Wouldn’t you want revenge?”

Scott gives him a look that says I-know-what-you’re-doing-but-it’s-working-anyway. 

Taking that as a yes, Stiles continues, “That aside, there’s also the possibility that the cure wouldn’t have worked at all. It’s just a myth, remember? So if you _had_ killed Peter and it didn’t work, then where would you be?” He pauses a moment, waiting for Scott to get it, but the numbskull just stares at him blankly. “You’d be the Alpha,” Stiles finishes. “And holy fucking Jesus, we definitely don’t need to deal with something like that. Am I right or am I right?”

He grins cheekily and Scott shoots him a withering glare, although with a twist of his mouth that lets Stiles know he’s won the argument.

“Whatever,” Scott grumbles, picking up his phone once more. “Derek’s gone now. So we’re going to have to figure this out by ourselves.”

And then Allison calls, so that’s the end of _that_ conversation. Stiles doesn’t even bother to bring it up with him again later. Scott’s his best friend, but the guy’s not so big on the thinking-things-through part of life.

Apparently, Jackson isn’t either.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” the boy says cheerfully, admiring his claws as he pops them in and out with rapid ease. “I hope he _did_ leave. We’re better off without him.”After making such a big show of moaning and sweating and bleeding on the floor at Derek’s place the other night, he sure as hell is taking to the whole being a werewolf thing pretty fast. Of course he is. Stiles can’t believe he ever felt worried about the stupid asshole.

“We are _not_ better off without him,” Stiles interjects, grabbing Jackson’s wrist and glancing nervously around the parking lot for onlookers. “And stop doing that. Are you, like, _actually_ retarded? Someone’s going to see you.”

Jackson scowls at him. “Fuck off, Stilinski,” he snarls. “I’m being careful. No one’s around.” He crosses his arms over his chest, head cocked to the side appraisingly. “Why do you think we need Derek?” he asks, and Stiles has to give him points for sounding legitimately curious. “He figured out all that shit with his sister and his uncle. If he wants to leave town, I say we let him. Good riddance.”

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, wordlessly willing himself to be patient. “Okay, for starters, I said I _don’t_ think he’s left town. I think something’s happened to him. Second, we need him because you and Scott don’t have a clue what you’re doing. Derek’s been a werewolf all his life. We _need_ someone like that around to keep everything from going to shit. A two-man pack isn’t going to cut it.”

“Pack?” Jackson frowns, bemused. “What are you talking about?”

Stiles wants to punch him in the face. Or maybe just curl up in a corner and go to sleep for a long, long time. “Did Derek not explain _anything_ to you?” he asks desperately.

Jackson bristles at his tone. “I asked for the bite, and he gave it to me,” he says shortly. “That’s pretty much the extent of our discussion on the subject.”

“Amazing,” Stiles groans. “Fucking terrific.”

Jackson huffs, shoving past him to open the door of his Porsche. “It doesn’t matter,” he says loftily, turning the key in the ignition. “I don’t need a pack. I didn’t do this to make friends.”

Stiles leans in through the window, frowning. “Then what _did_ you do it for? Just to be the best at lacrosse again.”

But Jackson just rolls up the window and drives away without answering. And Stiles doesn’t see him again for another few days.

So, it’s really just him. He’s the only one who thinks something’s amiss here. He’s the only one who cares.

Not that he can’t understand why. Scott’s pissed at the guy - justifiably so - and Jackson’s terrified of him. And they’re right: Derek’s essentially finished with his business in Beacon Hills. He has nothing holding him back here, so it makes sense that he would move on with his life. Hell, he’d been packed and ready to go when Stiles confronted him at the house the other night.

_But he kissed me_.

The thought keeps nagging at him, gnawing at his brain like some incessant itch he can’t scratch. It won’t let him forget, won’t let him move on.

Whatever else Derek may be, he’s not the type of guy to essentially _molest_ a teenage boy in his house, run away, and never talk about it again. Stiles is sure of this. Derek would come back. He would want to see Stiles again, if only to apologize or to explain himself. Or both. If it hadn’t been for the whole mess with the fire all those years ago, and if the town hadn’t unjustly labeled Derek as a threat to the community, Stiles suspects he would be seen by parents as “that decent guy who lives down the street.” Because, really, he sort of _is_. Beneath the rough exterior, the guy’s got morals.

On top of that, the fact that Derek even kissed him in the first place is doing a serious number on Stiles’ perception of their relationship. Up until that moment, he hadn’t even thought Derek _liked_ him. As a friend, much less something...more than that.

But it appears that he was wrong. And if Derek _does_ like him, if he _is_ interested in him in that way, then it seems somewhat far-fetched that he would just up and vanish without a proper goodbye at the very least.

And it’s not just the kiss. That’s not the only thing bothering him.

There’s something inside of him now, something lying dormant in his brain. He can feel it writhing about in there, unsettled, ready to boil, and he’s not sure what it is. He remembers the little electric shock he’d gotten when Derek had pulled away from the kiss; that brief moment where every fiber of his being stood up on end and everything felt alive and vibrant and _different_ and strange and good.

That means something. It all means something. He’s not sure why he’s so certain, but he knows he’s right. Knows it in his core.

And he’s going to find the answers.

***

He starts with the woods. Where else?

It’s the last place he saw Derek - taking off into the night like some wounded animal, charging headfirst into the undergrowth - so he might as well look there first.

He’s smart enough to go during the daytime, skipping out on plans with Scott with the excuse of visiting Lydia in the hospital. The sun is shining bright in the midday sky, cutting in through the canopy in soft, ethereal rays. The leaves crunch beneath his sneakers as he moves down the narrow trails, unsure of what he’s looking for but hoping for some sort of sign.

There’s a hollow under an old oak tree that dips down into a small tunnel under the earth, and Stiles takes his pocket flashlight and shines it down the passageway, twisting it as best he can to look around the bends. It’s too small for any human to fit, much less a full-grown werewolf.

The riverbank provides no clues either, and Stiles is seriously starting to rethink his strategy when Chris Argent decides that it’s the perfect moment to scare the living daylights out of him.

“Wandering out in the forest by yourself?”

Stiles _doesn’t_ scream. He doesn’t. And thank God, because his dignity really can’t afford to take another hit. But he does make a sort of vague half-defensive, half-flailing gesture and drops the flashlight on the ground. He hears the glass crack.

“You make a habit of sneaking up on people in the middle of nowhere?” Stiles snaps, glaring. Then he remembers that, actually, _yes_. That’s exactly what Mr. Argent does. So, as an afterthought, he throws in, “It’s daylight. Nothing wrong with a little stroll through nature, is there?”

Mr. Argent just looks at him, head cocked slightly, a small smile curling his mouth upward. Stiles represses a shudder. The guy may not be a psychopath like his dead sister, but he’s still creepy as all get out. “You know it’s dangerous out here,” he chides, somehow sounding like a stern parental figure and a mad axe murderer at the same time. “If you insist on playing in the woods, you should at least have some company.”

Stiles shifts awkwardly, leaning down to pick up the broken flashlight. “Uh, yeah...If you’re offering, then no thanks. I’m cool. And I’m not playing.”

“No?” Mr. Argent says delicately, faux-innocently. “Then what are you doing?”

Stiles mouths uselessly for a second, then turns on his heel and starts marching back towards the tree line, back towards town.

“You should be more careful,” the man calls after him, but Stiles doesn’t look back. “We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt, now would we.”

And that one’s definitely not a question. They understand each other perfectly.

***

Stiles is painfully aware that, despite being raised by a police chief, he really isn’t that much of an investigator. Which is understandable, seeing as he’s only sixteen, but it’s still frustrating. He doesn’t even know how to _start_ going about looking for Derek.

Where would a werewolf even hide? If not the woods, then the creepy old house. But that’s where Derek ran _away_ from, so probably not. Where else? 

He’s wracking his brain and coming up empty.

And Scott and Jackson are no help.

Things on _that_ front are moving along smoothly as though nothing’s even happened. Scott and the Argents seem to have made nice in the wake of the whole Peter Hale mess, and they’ve allowed him to continue seeing Allison without much of a fuss. (Although Scott’s told Stiles that Mrs. Argent likes to sharpen her kitchen knives pointedly when he and Allison are sitting in the living room watching TV.) Their epic teenage romance is just as sappy and insufferable as ever, to the point that Stiles honestly doesn’t even want to talk to Scott much anymore. Not until he can stop thinking with his dick for at least five seconds consecutively.

Jackson’s even worse. He’s taken to his new werewolf powers with such ease, it would actually be really impressive if it weren’t so scary. In fact, the only thing he _does_ seem to be struggling with is keeping the damn thing a secret.

“I swear to God,” Stiles snaps, yanking Jackson around the side of the school and slamming him into the wall. “Do you _want_ to get caught? Allison’s parents are hunters, you idiot. If you wolf out on the practice field, or in the cafeteria, or in _class_ , they’re going to find out about it one way or another.”

Jackson grabs ahold of his wrists and flips them around so Stiles is the one with his back against the wall. Of course. “Stop telling me what to do,” he snarls, eyes starting to flash. And, okay, Stiles is _maybe_ a little bit scared of him. Just a little. “Who died and left you in charge?”

“Peter Hale,” Stiles retorts. “And since Derek left, I’m apparently the only one of us smart enough to be the Alpha.”

And like that, Jackson’s anger fades away, replaced just as fast with derisive amusement. “You? The Alpha?” His mouth twists into a sneer. “You’re not even a werewolf, idiot.”

Stiles chews on his tongue. “Jackson,” he says slowly, with forced patience. “This isn’t about you, or me, or Scott. It’s not about fucking lacrosse or being popular or being the best, or whatever bullshit you’re thinking.”

His vision whites out when Jackson’s fist connects with his nose. Clutching his face, he drops to the ground when the taller boy releases his wrists. Blood dribbles down his chin in messy streaks.

“Stop talking to me like I’m a fucking child!” Jackson seethes from somewhere above him. “I’ve got everything under control!”

Stiles blinks up at him, wiping away the blood. “Clearly not,” he says calmly.

Jackson glares, and he looks like he might throw another punch for a second there, but then he’s walking away, wiping his knuckles against the hem of his jeans, not even bothering to look back.

So, yeah. Scott and Jackson are no help at all.

It occurs to Stiles after a few days of stewing over Derek’s disappearance that his brain totally skipped the gay crisis freakout stage, and while he really ought to think of that as a good thing, he can’t help but listen to the small voice in the back of his head that insists he needs to deal with this in typical dramatic fashion.

So he talks to Danny.

“Okay,” he starts, putting on his best serious face as they’re sitting together in Stiles’ bedroom working on Chemistry. “So here’s the thing...”

Danny’s eyes go wide and horrified. “No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “No way.”

Stiles double takes, genuinely confused. “No what? I haven’t said anything yet!”

Danny glares. “You said ‘so here’s the thing,’ Stiles,” he grits out, mimicking Stiles’ tone perfectly. “I’ve been out long enough to know what that voice means. And the answer is no. I am not going to talk about gay stuff with you.”

Stiles sticks his lower lip out, pouting. “Why not?” he scowls, not even bothering to deny it.

“Believe it or not, most gay guys actually _don’t_ want their sexuality to be the focal point of every conversation for the rest of their lives.”

Stiles waves this off dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I know that. But that’s not what this is. I’m not asking about you.”

Danny raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Really?”

“Really?” Stiles nods, morphing his face into his best imitation of innocence. Judging by Danny’s reaction, he probably just looks constipated. 

“Yes. Please?”

Danny lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Jesus...I know I’m going to regret this...but go ahead.”

Stiles grins. “Awesome.” There’s a long pause, and Danny’s eyebrows slowly start creeping further and further up his forehead, and Stiles remembers that, oh yeah, he’s supposed to keep talking. “Er...right. Okay. So, um...” He scratches the back of his head uncomfortably. “Alright. So...here’s the thing.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “Are you coming out to me?” he asks point-blank. Then pales. “Wait, you’re not coming _on_ to me, are you? Because, I mean, you’re good-looking and all, but you’re not exactly my type.”

Stiles blanches. “What? No! I’m not coming out. Or coming on. There’s no coming going on here!” And, okay, word choices need a little work. Stiles’ face brightens. “Wait. You think I’m good-looking? I knew it!” Danny groans and buries his face in his hands.

“God...okay, you’re not gay. So what is it then?”

Blushing furiously, Stiles sucks on the inside of his cheek. “Okay, so moving on. Um...well, there’s this guy...”

“Of course,” Danny says, deadpan.

Stiles glares. “Would you just shut up and let me tell the story?”

“Okay, okay. You’re right.” Danny raises his palms, surrendering. “Proceed.”

“Great, thank you.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Okay, like I said, there’s this guy. And...I’m not sure about this, but he may or may not have...feelings for me. Like, _feelings_ feelings.” A pause. Danny stares. “Gay feelings.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Danny says, rubbing his forehead and looking like he wishes he could be anywhere else in the world right now. “Keep going.” 

Stiles nods. This is going well. “Yeah. So, I think he does, but I’m not really sure. And I’m not really sure how I feel about it.”

Danny nods contemplatively, looking somewhat more thoughtful. “Who is this guy? And what makes you think he has feelings for you?”

Stiles blushes harder. “Well...it’s Miguel. Who is actually Derek Hale, and not my cousin at all. Because I totally made that shit up on the spot.”

“That was Derek Hale?” Danny’s face goes through a range of emotions: surprised, then pissed, then impressed, then horrified. “Wait. You think _Derek Hale_ likes you? As in, Derek Hale, the guy who is at least eight years older than you and possibly crazy and homicidal?”

“Okay, first of all,” Stiles says defensively, “I don’t think he’s that much older. I don’t think. No...yeah. I’m pretty sure. Sort of. Anyway, that’s not the point! Secondly, yeah, I think he likes me. I’m about 90% sure he does.” He thinks for a minute. “Well, I’m not so sure he likes _me,_ as a person or whatever. I’m a little unclear on that. But I’m definitely 90% sure he likes me as, you know, a sex object or something.”

Danny looks like he wants to _die_. “Excuse me?” he says faintly.

“Yeah.” Stiles bobs his head thoughtfully. “I went over to his house the other day and he basically tongue-fucked my mouth.”

Danny splutters helplessly, turning beet red in about two seconds flat. He looks a little like he might throw up. Then his nausea turns to indignation. “He _kissed_ you?” he hisses, dumbfounded. “In his house? Dude, not cool! That’s like...child abuse, basically.”

Stiles scowls. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he says airily, even though he feels a smug satisfaction that Danny’s actually bothering to be pissed off on his behalf. Apparently he cares after all. “I’m not a cherub-cheeked altar boy, Danny. He’s not a Catholic priest. There were no private, back-room fondling sessions. It was a good old-fashioned, all-American kiss. Between two dudes. Who, okay, happen to be a few years apart. But still.”

“But still, nothing,” Danny insists. He looks seriously uncomfortable now. “Stiles...this is a big deal. I think I might have to tell your dad...”

Stiles jerks up, eyes widening. “What?” he says quickly, dismayed. “No, no. _No_. Come on, man, I told you this in confidence!”

“I understand that,” Danny says carefully. “And I’m oddly touched that you trusted me enough to tell me. But I don’t think I can just keep quiet about something like this. If I don’t say anything, and then he forces himself on you...”

Stiles shakes his head emphatically. “Look, you’re totally misreading the situation. It’s not like that. At all. I swear.”

Danny looks at him doubtfully. “What, so it was consensual? I thought you said you weren’t gay.”

“Well, no.” Stiles slumps back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “That’s not...I don’t know. I don’t think so? Maybe just a little. Or maybe just for him.”

Danny sighs. “You’re just confused. He kissed you, and you weren’t expecting it, and now you think you have feelings for him, too. Because-” He cuts off, clamping his jaw shut.

Stiles’ eyes narrow suspiciously. “Because what?” Danny won’t meet his gaze. And it clicks. “Oh,” Stiles mutters, annoyed. “Because I’m so desperate to get some action, I’ll just reciprocate with whoever bothers to give me the time of day? Is that it?”

“No,” Danny says, stretching his arms out placatingly. “That’s not it.” He heaves a frustrated breath. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

Stiles’ mouth twitches upward. “Aww,” he teases. “I didn’t know you cared, Danny-boy.”

Danny glares. “Stiles.”

“Okay, okay. Shutting up.”

They sit in silence for a moment or two, thinking over the conversation. Somewhere in the middle of wondering how the hell this is his life, Stiles has an epiphany of sorts, pumping his fist in the air excitedly. 

Danny jerks, startled. “What?”

Stiles shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just had an idea, that’s all.” He leans back in the chair, twisting his arms over his head and yawning. “I think I actually _will_ tell my Dad about this.”

Danny looks surprised for a moment, then relieved. Deeply, immensely relieved. “That’s good. That’s a good idea. You should definitely do that.”

***

So he does.

Admittedly, opening the conversation with, “Hey, Dad. So guess what? Derek Hale kissed me the other day.” probably wasn’t the best way to kick things off. But he’s nervous and awkward, and he’s never been the best at communication without inappropriate humor. So all in all, it’s not the _worst_ way to begin.

His dad just stares at him for a second. Blinks. Then, “He _what_?!?!”

Okay, so maybe it is.

Stiles swallows, forcing a grin, as if to say _Hey, it’s no big deal, right?_ “He, uh...he kissed me.”

His dad looks mere seconds away from murder. “That son of a bitch,” he seethes, pulling on his jacket. “Where are my car keys?”

Stiles steps in front of him, placing a hand on his chest to keep him from moving further. “Uh, yeah. Lets say you and I talk about this. You know, instead of going nuts and pulling a gun on someone. How’s that sound?”

“This isn’t a jokes, Stiles.” His father glares at him, breathing hard. “Get out of the way.”

Stiles glances at the gun in its holster at the sheriff’s side. “Uh, not until you put that thing on the table. And besides, he’s not home, and you’re not going to be able to find him.”

His dad hesitates for a moment, and Stiles can just _see_ the internal debate playing out inside his head. But eventually, his shoulders relax and he eases back into the kitchen, sitting down heavily at the table. “Alright,” he says, voice officer-hard and commanding. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s pretty much the whole story, dad. I went over to his house, and-”

“You went over to his house?” his father interrupts, tone steely and suspicious. “Why?”

“Umm...” Stiles shrugs. “We talk sometimes.” It’s a lame excuse, but better that than explaining the concept of werewolves. He is definitely not ready for _that_ conversation.

“You talk sometimes,” his dad repeats dully. “Just the two of you.”

Stiles hesitates, not wanting to drag more people into this than absolutely necessary, but not wanting to sound unconvincing either. “Well, Scott and Jackson sometimes, too. We’ve kind of gotten to know him recently.” When this elicits no response, he adds, “He’s really not a bad guy.”

His dad snorts. “Didn’t you tell me he was a murderer?”

Stiles flushes. “Yeah. Oops. We were wrong about that, sorry.”

The sheriff runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. It’s the sort of exhausted gesture he saves exclusively for conversations with Stiles. “Son. I’m having a hard time following you here. Is he guilty of something or not?”

“He’s not _guilty_ of anything. Not like you mean. He didn’t do anything wrong.” After a pause, “But he did kiss me. Which is what I wanted to talk about.”

His dad stares at him for a moment or two, then stands to go over to the refrigerator, pulling out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “Okay,” he says carefully, sitting back down. “Are you trying to tell me that...you’re gay?”

Stiles shakes his head vehemently. “No, that’s not it. Like I said, _he_ kissed _me_. It wasn’t my idea.”

And, okay. Totally the wrong way to phrase that. His father clenches the bottle tightly in his hand, silently fuming. “He forced himself on you?” he grits out, eyes blazing.

“No!” Stiles says quickly. “I mean...not exactly. No. Definitely not. It was just...I dunno. An accident or something.”

“An accident...”

“Yes. Or, you know, whatever. A misunderstanding.”

His father looks somewhat more relaxed now, albeit still disgruntled. “I’m going to have to bring him in regardless,” he says firmly. “He engaged in sexual contact with a minor, and we have to at least question him.”

Stiles balks at the terminology. “Ugh, gross. Seriously, don’t call it ‘sexual contact.’ It was just a kiss.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve tried to find him to talk about it, but he hasn’t been home for the past week or so. I don’t know where else he would be.”

His father nods, thinking. “We’ll find him,” he says, voice coming out a little more intimidating than Stiles would prefer.

“Okay, well please be gentle,” he says, hoping he sounds like he’s pleading, not whining. “Don’t hurt him. I just want to clear things up.”

His father studies him cautiously. Chews on his lower lip. Nods. “Alright,” he says, taking a swig of the whiskey. “Just a talk. That can be arranged.”

Stiles smiles, relieved. “That’s all I ask.”

***

Derek awakens from a dreamless sleep.

Everything is the same. Four white walls, a white ceiling and a white floor. The glass table in the center. Spotless and shiny and creepily perfect.

But this time, there’s someone else in the room with him.

He jerks up, skidding across the mattress, pressing the length of his body against the wall.

The intruder is standing in the corner, tall and rigid and unmoving. Staring at him. Or at least Derek _thinks_ she’s staring. He can’t be sure: her face is concealed by a thick silver mask, shaped like a cheap mockery of a human face; no eyeholes, no mouth-hole. Just three soft indentions, little swoops in the metal where those sockets ought to be. The mouth indention is contorted in a small, happy smile. The eye indentions bulge, and Derek knows, just _knows_ that this person can see through them. Somehow.

Honestly, he’s not even positive how he knows that it’s a she. He can just sense it. Something in her manner, something in the way she’s standing: held back, restrained. Not looming over him, not threatening. Cautious and wary and patient.

She’s donned in all black. Thick, dark pants made from some slick material that gleams in the glow of the fluorescent lights and squeaks when she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Black, close-toed shoes placed squarely on the floor, kept at an even distance from one another. A long-sleeved jacket, soft and silken, and not at all flattering to her figure; clearly intended for practicality, not for fashion. Full-length charcoal gloves tipped with metallic finger-caps. Her hair is short-cropped, boyish, and it adds tenfold to the unsettlingly androgynous appearance.

Derek listens closely, but he can’t hear breathing behind that mask.

“You are awake,” the figure speaks, and Derek starts, body tensing for a fight. The voice is monotone, low. Virtually no inflection at all. “Do you remember who you are?”

“Where the hell am I?” Derek growls, fists balling up, veins bulging in his arms. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

The figure doesn’t move. “All will be made clear in time,” she says, clearly unimpressed with his anger. “Do you remember who you are?”

Derek glares, glancing at the door to his right. The seam is broken, and he contemplates making a quick dash for it.

As if reading his thoughts, the figure cuts in, “There is no reason to run. You are not a prisoner here.”

Derek scoffs, breath coming out ragged. “Yeah. Fucking sure. That’s why you locked me in this God damn jail cell. Because you’re on my side.”

The figure stares at him, and Derek is starting to get profoundly creeped out. She’s so _still_. So calm and collected. “It was necessary,” she says, not even trying to sound persuasive. She just states it, completely matter-of-fact. Like it’s obvious. “You needed time to recover your memories, and a secure zone like this is the best place for that. It was for your own protection.”

“My protection?” Derek repeats, and against his better judgment, his anger is quickly fading into curiosity. “Protection from what?”

“As I said,” the figure speaks, “All will be made clear in time.” Her head tilts to the side, as if she’s studying him from behind that false, silver face. “Do you remember who you are?”

Derek breathes deeply, allowing the tension to drain out of shoulders. It’s not looking like this person is going to hurt him. Not yet, at least. “Yes,” he says. “My name is Derek Hale.”

“That is your name,” the figure chides, wagging a reprimanding finger. “That is not who you are. Do you remember who you are?”

Derek grits his teeth. “What do you mean, do I remember? I’m Derek Hale. I grew up in Beacon Hills with my family. They were murdered by a hunter I thought I was in love with. I’m the last living member of my bloodline.” He hesitates. “I am a born werewolf.”

The figure observes him closely, still standing straight and unmoving in the corner of the room. After a moment, she nods, apparently satisfied with his answer. “We have much ground to cover, Derek Hale,” she says, flat and commanding. “It would be better if there were more hours in which I could adjust you to the truth, but we do not have that luxury. So we must make do with the time we have.”

Derek frowns, tensing up again. “What are you talking about?” he says, feeling an inexplicable dread rising up inside of him. Then, a thought occurring to him, “Is this about hunters?” Growling, “The Argents? Are they involved in this?”

“You need to forget about the things you think you know,” the figure replies passively. “Assessing the situation according to prior knowledge will only confuse you further. Nothing that is happening here is what it seems.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Derek retorts, slowly edging his way towards the door along the wall. “If you’re just going to spout riddles at me, I’m not going to stick around.

And the figure _does_ move now, with startling speed. She leaps in front of the door, slamming it shut behind her. Derek can hear the locks turning in the walls as it seals shut. “This is not about the hunters,” the figure says to him, slightly more authoritative, but somehow still not coming across threateningly. “This is not about the werewolves. You are but a single, very minuscule cog in a very large wheel. You are a part of a larger picture. This is about something greater than you can possibly fathom.”

“What?” Derek asks. “Tell me what.”

She shakes her head. “No. Not yet. Your mind is not yet ready to see the truth.”

Derek takes another steadying breath, struggling to control his emotions. “You’re going to have to give me something,” he says warningly. “I can’t just _sit_ here in this fucking room waiting for you to make up your mind and clue me in.”

The figure nods, relaxing against the doorframe. “You don’t have to stay in here anymore. You know who you are, so you are free to move forward. To assist with our operation.”

Derek feels his heartbeat beginning to pick up. Unbidden, an image flashes before his mind.

[Lying in a gelatinous membrane of redness and air, pressing up against the walls in vain for escape to the outside world. A tiny buzz-saw cutting through to release him into the dark waters of-]

He gasps for air, finding himself on his knees, palms splayed out on the floor of the white room. His heart is running wild. He looks up at the figure, and she stares back impassively.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks, and he’s startled by how afraid he sounds. “I don’t understand what’s happening...”

“Your friends’ lives are at stake, Derek Hale,” she replies, stretching out arm and helping him to his feet. As their hands meet, Derek feels the touch of cold metal against his skin, and remembers feeling it once before.

[ _In the bubble_ , he thinks. _She pulled me out._ ]

“My friends,” he repeats numbly. “In danger.”

“Yes.” She nods affirmatively. “And not just them. This extends further than you can imagine.”

He stands shakily, blinking away the darkling visions that dance inside his brain. “How are they in danger? What from?”

She looks at him for a few seconds, unspeaking. Then:

“They are lost within the Garden. And this may be our only chance to break them free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the first chapter. Just a fair warning, this is going to be a loooooong story. So be prepared for that.
> 
> I will update regularly. My schedule is pretty busy, so I can only guarantee one chapter per week (although I write whenever I can, so it will most likely be more often than that).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. The Mainframe

Derek feels a thrill run down his spine. An involuntary spasm, a primal reaction to a name that should mean nothing to him.

“The Garden,” he says, trying it out on his tongue. It’s an electrifying sound. “What is the Garden?”

The dark figure before him seems to shrink in on itself, and Derek wishes desperately that he could see beyond the silver mask and gaze into the eyes of his captor. “You will soon see,” she says. “I will show you. But first we must locate the boy you’ve marked as your own.”

Derek freezes, and he feels for a moment as though his brain is shutting down. “What?”

All he gets in response is a knowing look - or at least he _thinks_ it’s a knowing look; he can’t really tell - and then the figure is opening the door, flinging it wide with a gentle push and beckoning for him to follow. “Come.”

Feet moving beneath him as if they have a will of their own, Derek follows her down the hallway, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in as he finally crosses the threshold of the doorway, exiting the white room into the darkness.

The hall is nearly pitch-black, and Derek can barely make out the movement in front of him as he feels his away along the smooth stone walls. He listens for the squeaking tap of the figure’s shoes pattering along the floorboards as a guide for direction.

And then it hits him: he has to _listen_. Really listen, straining his ears to make out the soft sound echoing in the tunnel.

It’s something he should have noticed right away, as soon as his memories returned: his werewolf senses aren’t working. They’re gone, vanished. As if they never existed. Or at least they’re muted, hindered. Perhaps by some drug.

Even stranger, it doesn’t feel all that strange. The realization ought to make him feel incomplete, naked without his powers. But instead, he just feels...indifferent. He didn’t even notice the change until just now.

The pitter-patter of the figure’s black shoes stops abruptly, and Derek skids to a quick halt, listening closely. He hears the twist of a door handle, and then the darkness is giving way to light, dim and glowing, emanating through the opening.

He steps into the room, blinking as the figure beside him flips a light switch and florescent bars of white flare up into existence above their heads.

Derek stares.

It’s another small room, dark-themed this time, layered with bricks painted charcoal black. There’s a cot off to the left, crammed tightly in the corner, slanted to one side on sagging bedsprings. The floor tiles glint in the fluorescent light, slick and shiny and reminiscent of black marble. There’s a desk in the center of the room: a thick slab of wood curved into the shape of a semicircle. It’s layered with controls and buttons and switches. A rolling chair sits at the front of the desk.

Above the desk, a series of television screens line the walls, latched on tight by means of screws and beams and iron grid-work. The central monitor is turned off, and Derek can see his murky reflection staring back at him in the convex curve of the dusty glass. The smaller monitors surrounding the primary hub, however, are switched on, and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Derek to recognize the locations on display.

Three screens in the righthand corner of the wall show surveillance footage of the Hale house: one directly in front, framing the porch dead on; one looking down on the living room from a ceiling angle, moving back and forth in a steady pan; one in the bedroom, a top shot angled down, centered directly on the worn-down mattress near the window. The picture quality is eerily perfect; Derek can even make out the dust particles floating about in the bedroom as light shines down on the floorboards through the windowpanes.

Other monitors depict banal activity in other parts of Beacon Hills: several in the local high school, one or two in the police station, one in the Veterinarian’s clinic.

The figure stands off to the side, observing Derek’s reaction patiently behind that sleek silver mask. Derek takes a jittery step forward, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline as he watches Sheriff Stilinski pacing in his office with a cell phone pressed against his ear.

A movement in one of the bottom left screens catches his eye, and he turns his head to see, with a clench in stomach, Scott and Jackson listening intently while Coach Finstock  yells at the lacrosse team, waving his hands animatedly, hair flopping about as he gesticulates.

Derek turns to the masked figure, heart hammering in his chest. “What the hell is all this?” he breathes.

***

“Focus, boys!” Coach shouts. “I wanna see some _effort_ , you fruity pansies!” His eyebrows knit together and he glances at Danny with an apologetic expression. “No offense intended to you, of course.”

“Well I didn’t take it as such until you said _that_ ,” Danny deadpans, glaring daggers.

Coach Finstock flushes red with embarrassment, hastily moving on past his gaffe. “Don’t be afraid to get rough out there guys. This is a _sport_ , damn it! I know the school board’s trying to push that everybody’s-a-winner horseshit down our throats, but I say no! Everybody is _not_ a winner. You have winners, and you have losers. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay! So long as I’m your coach, I promise you...”

Jackson’s eyes drift over to Scott while he nods reflexively to Coach’s droning monologue. The dark haired boy is mouthing silently, reading aloud to a text message with a stupid, goofy grin on his face. No doubt he’s talking to his girlfriend. Jackson surreptitiously scoots closer, leaning over near Scott’s ear, startling the other boy with his sudden proximity. “Wanna try paying attention, McCall?” he mutters.

Scott pulls an unpleasant bitch-face, stowing his phone away in his pocket. “Killjoy,” he shoots back, and Jackson wiggles his eyebrows mischievously.

“Ready to have your ass handed to you?” he whispers gleefully. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Scott retorts.

“...and that’s why you shouldn’t go easy on the other team just because the parents might sue,” Coach finishes proudly. “Any questions?” He scans the crowd earnestly, frowning over the tops of their heads. “Hey, where’s Bilinski at?” He looks at Scott suspiciously. “McCall! Where’s your buddy?”

Scott shrugs. “He didn’t say, sir.”

Coach frowns doubtfully. “Really...”

“He had a prior engagement, Coach,” Danny pipes up, lifting his goalie mask to speak. “Family troubles.”

“Oh.” Coach nods, satisfied. “Fair enough. Tell him he’d better be here next time.”

“Will do.”

Jackson and Scott make their way over to Danny as the team disperses onto the field, getting into positions for practice. “What’s wrong with Stiles?” Scott inquires, expression worried. “What happened?”

“Yeah,” Jackson cuts in. “And since when do you and Stilinski talk?”

Danny glances between them. To Scott, “Oh, I just made that up. He asked me to give an excuse so he could take care of some business.”

Scott frowns. “What kind of business?”

“Didn’t say. Private business, I suppose,” Danny shrugs. Looking at Jackson, he adds, “He and I talk sometimes. We’re lab partners, remember?”

Jackson and Scott pull their mesh masks over their heads, still looking suspicious as they hustle off into positions.

***

Derek stands rigid as the figure moves around to sit at the desk, pulling out an oddly shaped keyboard and tapping away at the buttons. “Answer me,” he demands hostilely. “What the fuck is this?”

The figure doesn’t respond right away, finishing out a sequence of numbers and letters, appearing in dark red patterns on the main monitor. Derek hears a low thrumming from beneath, and the floor below begins to vibrate; slowly at first, then picking up in speed. He backs away hastily, edging towards the wall as a round hole opens up in the ground next to the desk and a twisted metal contraption starts to rise up on a elevated platform.

When it’s about halfway through, Derek can see what it is: another chair, larger than the other. The armrests are lined with tightly wound mesh fabric, and large clumps of wires hang down in strands from a pole sticking out through the backrest. There’s a large x-shaped strap dangling across the middle of the machine; a seatbelt of sorts. Or maybe just restraints. Once the platform reaches level with the rest of the floor, the wires come to life, sparking up with green electric currents running visibly through the length of the twisted strands.

“What you’re looking at,” the figure pipes up, and Derek jumps at the off-key melodic intonation of her voice, “is the Mainframe.” She gestures to the array of screens, her finger pausing on one in particular.

Derek’s heart leaps in his throat as he sees Stiles sitting in his bedroom with headphones hooked up to a battered old radio, an expression of focused intensity etched across his face.

“You’ve been a part of it for as long as you’ve been alive,” the figure continues. “And we’ve been watching for far longer than that.”

“What is the Mainframe?” Derek asks, question escaping instinctively, but the figure turns her mask toward him, staring him down with a silent gaze.

“I know you have no reason to trust me yet,” she says, taking a step closer, and Derek’s back is pressed against the wall as he tries to move further away, “but as I’ve already told you, we don’t have the luxury of time. I will answer every question you have when the moment is right, but for now, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take a leap of faith.” 

She reaches into the fold of her jacket and produces a small, metallic gun-shaped device. Derek jolts, bracing himself to fight, suddenly wishing his werewolf abilities weren’t being hampered by external forces. 

“What is-” he starts, pointing at the gun.

“No questions,” she interrupts, reaching out calmly with her empty hand, fingers twisting in a beckoning motion. “Give me your arm. Your good arm.”

Derek shakes his head violently. “Fat chance.”

Her hand drops to her side, head tilting at an angle as she stares from beneath her false face. “This is our only means of contacting Stiles,” she says simply, informatively. “There is no other way.” She lifts the hand again. “Give me your arm.”

Derek grits his teeth, knees buckling beneath him. Slowly, cautiously, he stretches out his arm, laying the back of his wrist against the figure’s gloved palm. “Whatever you’re going to do, make it fast,” he grumbles, face screwing up in anticipation.

She places the gun against his wrist at an angle, pointing towards his fingers. She pulls the trigger.

It’s surprising how little pain there is. Just a sharp, stinging jolt, and then Derek feels something small and cold _slide_ into him and settle underneath the skin and tissue. The muscles in his biceps clench, but he manages to restrain himself from jerking out of the figure’s grasp.

“Good,” she murmurs, voice soft, and Derek’s eyebrows raise at that. He could almost swear he heard a twinge of emotion there, which would be new. It was fleeting, however, so he can’t be sure.

“So what was that?” he asks, seemingly unable to resist the urge to question every development.

Ignoring him, the figure wipes away the small pool of blood with the sleeve of her jacket, then pulls out a small bandage and stretches it over the wound. “Sit,” she orders, pointing to the chair on the platform. 

Derek obeys, watching the screen where Stiles is listening to the radio while the figure snaps the clasp of the x-shaped seatbelt over his chest. “When did you have all these cameras installed?” he muses out loud, more for his own benefit than anything else. “How is it even possible to get some of these angles?”

The figure pauses what she’s doing and, to Derek’s surprise, answers, “We can get any angle we want. There is nowhere on the Mainframe we cannot find you.” Her fingers lace around the curve of his neck, tilting his head so she can tape the feathered end of a wire to his temple.

Derek bites his lip, wanting to ask more, but knowing he won’t get any answers yet. He studies at the machine he’s sitting in, squinting curiously at the glowing strands and running his hands up and down the meshwork nervously. “This is going to help Stiles,” he says, not really asking, but wanting to affirm nonetheless.

The figure nods, taping another wire to the other side of his neck and moving down to wrench a buckle across his bicep. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Derek murmurs, nodding to himself. “Alright.” He cringes as the figure lifts the bandage on his wrist to stick the frayed ends of a thick yellow cord into the bloody slit. “If all this shit turns out to be some elaborate trick, I swear I will never stop hunting you down,” he warns.

“I would expect no less,” the figure replies, stepping back to examine her handiwork. She nods, satisfied. “We’re ready to go.”

Sitting down in the rolling chair, she types away at the keyboard. Derek watches as a nonsensical string of numerals and symbols flicker in sequence on the central monitor. He stiffens as the machine begins to thrum and vibrate beneath him, and he grips the armrests tight, digging his fingernails into the mesh.

Sensing his discomfort, the figure turns to look at him, silver face unmoving as always. “Relax,” she says. “It’s not going to bite you.”

Derek swallows thickly, allowing his heartbeat to slow to a steady pace. “Whatever you’re about to do,” he says quietly, “is it going to hurt?”

The figure stares blankly for a few seconds. “No,” she says, finishing out the sequence with a few quick taps. “But it is going feel...unusual.”

Derek’s about to ask _What does that mean?_ , but then she presses a dark blue button on the control pad.

And his vision whites out.

***

Of course it’s Jackson that fucks up. Stiles isn’t even going to pretend to be surprised by that one.

When he pulls the Jeep into Scott’s driveway, he can see his friend sitting on the front porch with his fellow werewolf, each of them determinedly not looking at the other, brooding silently with their chins rested on their palms, elbows propped up on their knees.

Slamming the car door and spinning the keys on his index finger, Stiles fixes them both with the sternest glare he can muster.

“So, skipping past the I-told-you-so stage, can one of you please explain to me what the fuck you did?”

Scott shrugs sulkily. “Don’t look at me, dude.” He nudges Jackson in the ribs harshly.

Jackson glowers at him, then looks up at Stiles with a sheepish expression. “Danny...might have seen me shift on the practice field today,” he admits, gritting it out like it’s the most painful thing in the world to own up to a mistake.

“Might have?” Stiles probes, rolling his eyes.

“Fine. Did,” Jackson snaps. “He did see, okay? Happy?”

Stiles glares right back at him. “No. No, I’m not happy. I _told_ you this would happen, and instead of listening, you punched me in the face. You dimwitted Neanderthal.”

Scott wheels on Jackson, expression outraged. “He punched you in the face?”

Stiles waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, no harm done.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?” Jackson cuts in, glancing back and forth between the two boys. “And if you’re so smart, how about you quit ganging up on me and come up plan for what to do about Danny!”

“What to _do_ about him?” Stiles folds his arms, toying with the keys in his hand distractedly. “We don’t really have a choice _now_. We’ve got to tell him everything.”

Scott nods agreeably, but Jackson looks pissed off. “No,” he says vehemently. “We’re not dragging him into this.”

“A little too late for second thoughts,” Stiles says, tone firm and authoritative in a way he’s never quite managed to pull off before. Jackson’s shoulders slump in dismay, and Stiles’ gaze softens. Acting on his natural people-pleasing instincts, he puts a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. “Look, we’re just making the best out of a bad situation here. I don’t like it any more than you.” He nudges Jackson gently, urging him to meet his eye. “But you’ve got to admit it’s better he hear this from one of us than from someone else. Like the Argents, for instance.”

That seems to effectively quell Jackson’s protests, and after a minute or so of frustrated little huffs and foot tapping, he nods in grudging assent.

Stiles beams, ruffling Jackson’s hair. “Good boy.”

Jackson smacks his hand away, but Stiles thinks he may have seen the hint of a smile forming before the werewolf’s face morphed into a scowl. “Knock it off, Stilinski.”

Straightening up, Stiles pats down his jeans, glancing up at Scott’s bedroom window. “So, he’s up there, yeah?”

Scott nods glumly. “Yep. It took us about an hour to convince him that we aren’t part of some demonic cult, but he eventually agreed to stick around until you showed up.”

Stiles blinks, surprised. “He calmed down when you mentioned me?” He feels a swell of pride.

“Yeah, he seemed to think there was no way we were going to hurt him if you were involved,” Jackson mutters, chin resting in his palms.

“Well, I don’t exactly give off the psycho killer vibe you and Derek have going on,” Stiles muses thoughtfully.

Jackson jabs in the side with his forefingers, letting the nails pop out just enough to make it sting. “Are you just gonna stand there and stroke your ego, or are you gonna go in and tell him?”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles, and he rubs his side ruefully, frowning. “Okay, okay. Jesus.” Mounting the front steps, he takes a deep breath at the door. Looking back, he adds, “Wish me luck, I guess,” then enters.

***

Derek returns to consciousness.

His skin is alive. It’s writhing and burning with energy and sweat, and he’s gripping the sides of the chair so tightly, he’s sure he’s going to break it in half.

There’s an aching twinge in the back of his brain and he has just enough time to think _The bitch said it wouldn’t hurt_ before the throbbing dematerializes, replaced with a profound sense of serenity. Of connectivity.

His eyes spring wide open, and he stares in awe at the array of monitors lining the wall. The visual is sharper, clearer than ever, and he feels as though he could reach through the screens and touch the people inside. Everything’s layered in detailed texture.

A quiet ringing thrums in his eardrums, fading away after a few seconds and replaced by a low murmur of audio. It takes him a moment, but he quickly recognizes that it’s _them_. The people on the screens, the people inside the TVs. He can hear them all speaking, moving about in their little rooms, chattering to one another in person and on phones and across hallways and offices. He can hear the sound of the metal ring on the sheriff’s pencil rapping against his desk as he talks on his cell to a woman named Marcie. She’s yelling at him about her lost dog. Her voice is fuzzy and abrasive over the reception of the sheriff’s department-issued phone. He can hear two small children laughing on the swing-set at the local park, playing blissfully while their mothers watch from a nearby bench, jabbering away about the housework and bills and nosy neighbors they have to deal with later in the day.

Derek breathes in deep, and he finds that he can _focus_ the sound, can _drown out_ the white noise and pay attention to specific events playing out.

“Jesus,” he gasps, sweat dripping down his neck, pupils dilating wildly.

“You were out for a while, but you’re doing great,” the figure informs him, her attention focused on the central monitor. Derek looks at it as well and sees Stiles sitting with that Danny kid in Scott’s bedroom. Stiles is talking quietly, Danny is listening with his head buried in his hands.

“What’s happening to me?” Derek asks out loud, voice coming out in a whimper from exertion and strain.

“Focus,” the figure replies, hand coming around to scratch the back of her head, short-clipped hair bristling at the touch. She gestures towards the monitor. “Listen,” she orders.

Derek takes a deep breath, staring at the screen and doing his best to drown out everything except for Stiles.

Doing his best to ignore everything apart from the boy’s soft voice.

***

“So...yeah,” Stiles finishes lamely, hands twisting in his lap. “That about sums it up. Your best friend is a werewolf, and so is mine. And so is Derek. And Allison’s parents are werwolf hunters, but they’re sort of cool with Scott because he’s a kid and he hasn’t killed anybody. And Derek’s uncle was a werewolf, too. And he’s the one who attacked Lydia. He was a total psycho. And so was Allison’s aunt. And she’s the one who killed Derek’s family.” He thinks for a minute, then nods. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

Danny looks like he really needs to take a nap. “I can’t believe Jackson didn’t tell me,” he mutters. He doesn’t actually seem angry though, just slightly put out.

“I can’t believe it either,” Stiles admits. He grins. “But don’t be too hard on him. I bet the only reason he kept quiet was because he was afraid of Derek showing up at his house and breaking his legs.” The joke seems to hit off target, and Danny looks up at him with a weird mixture of horror and wariness. “Not to imply Derek would actually do that,” Stiles adds. “I just meant that Jackson’s scared shitless of him.”

“Ah.” Danny relaxes visibly, although he’s still popping his wrist in a repetitive, nervous gesture.

Stiles opens his mouth, unsure of how to continue, and then the knob clicks and Mrs. McCall pokes her head through the door. “You boys doing okay in here?” she asks, and it’s clear by her expression that she’s confused as to why her son and Jackson are sulking out on the porch while Stiles and Danny are by themselves in the bedroom.

“Doing great,” Stiles replies, smiling brightly at her. He pats Danny’s knee. “We’ll be out of your hair in a second,” he adds. “We’re just having a little private time right now.”

Mrs. McCall’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. Danny glares. “Stiles...” he grunts lowly.

Stiles flushes, coughing awkwardly. “A private _conversation_ ,” he rectifies, smile faltering somewhat, a nervous titter escaping his lips.

After a brief pause, Mrs. McCall just nods, rolling her eyes, and closes the door.

Once her footsteps fade away, Danny punches Stiles in the arm. “You are a terrible person,” he groans, running his fingers through his hair.

“I know,” Stiles says agreeably, rubbing his arm. “You’ve mentioned it before.”

“Seriously. Half of the school already thinks we’re fucking.”

Stiles nods absently, then has a double take. “Wait. What?” This is news to him. “Since when?”

Danny shrugs. “Since we became lab partners.” He yawns sleepily. “It’s not really your fault,” he adds half-heartedly. “It’s just one of those things about being ‘out and proud’ in high school. People just assume that if you spend more time with one guy than the rest, you must be doing it. Some guys I know _still_ think Jackson and I are secret lovers.” He glares. “Also, someone heard you in class when you asked me if I thought you were attractive.”

Stiles chuckles, expression sheepish and amused. “And thus began the rumors,” he says understandingly. “Sorry, dude.”

“It’s okay, I guess.” Danny smiles ruefully. He stretches, yawning again. “So...werewolves, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Werewolves.”

Danny bites his lip. “So what now?”

Stiles thinks for a minute, lying back on Scott’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Well you _know_ now, so I suppose you’re in the pack.”

Danny shifts in his chair, shoulders tensing up. “I don’t have to...become like them, do I? I don’t have to be turned?”

His voice is strained, anxious, and Stiles frowns at the sound, twisting his neck from his reclined position so he can see Danny’s face. “No,” he affirms, and Danny relaxes noticeably. “You don’t want the bite?” Stiles asks curiously.

“You didn’t,” Danny points out. “You said you refused when that psycho guy offered. Derek’s uncle.”

Stiles scoots back, leaning against the headboard. He shrugs, picking at his fingernails distractedly. “I didn’t want it from Peter,” he murmurs.

Danny’s mouth twists in bemusement. He digests that for a moment, then smirks. “Oh. I see.”

Stiles glances up, squinting suspiciously. “You see what? What do you see? What’s to see?”

Danny shakes his head, still smirking. “If you don’t already know, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Smug bastard,” Stiles grunts, but he’s grinning in spite of himself, and Danny is smiling back. 

They share in comfortable silence for a while after that. Stiles likes the company. It’s the first time the two of them have really felt like friends. 

He thinks he can get used to that.

***

Derek’s mind races, heart nearly pounding a hole in his chest as he struggles in the restraints to rip out the cord attached to his wrist.

Beads of sweat sting at his forehead, dripping down in profuse streaks. In his periphery, he can see the figure standing at his side, not touching, not comforting. Just standing and observing with a sort of detached, clinical curiosity.

“What did you hear?” she asks, hands folded behind her back. 

Panting, Derek unhooks the x-shaped strap and rips the taped wires away from his temples. “I heard them talking. And I heard...like, I heard Stiles’ voice. Twice. I mean, I could hear what he was saying to Danny, but I could also hear him talking...I don’t know. To himself? Like in his head.” He looks at the figure, his brow furrowed. “Like I could hear his thoughts.”

The figure nods, seemingly pleased. “That’s good. That’s progress. Especially for your first time.” She turns her back to him, moving to the keyboard and tapping out a sequence. The central monitor flicks off, the chair ceases its low vibration. “That’s it for now,” she announces.

Derek stares. He grits his teeth, standing up with a wince, rubbing at his still-sore wrist. “I don’t think so. We’re going to sit here and _do_ this shit, whatever it is. And then, you _are_ going to explain to me what the fuck is going on.”

The figure ignores his threatening tone. “You did well for your first time, but we can’t risk pushing you too far. You need your rest.” She gestures vaguely. “You can return to your room, or you can explore. Like I said, you’re not my prisoner.”

“Look.” Derek takes a step forward. “You have to give me _something_. Please. Surely you realize how insane all of this looks to me, and I’m not a trusting person by nature _anyway_.”

The figure takes pause at that, tilting her false face in his direction, contemplating him. “I know you’re not,” she says softly. Then, slowly, grudgingly, she turns her body to face him full on. “You’ve been scent-marking the boy,” she says, and it’s not really a question, but there’s a sort of request there; a request for confirmation.

Derek could lie, but looking around, he’s clearly not in any position to screw around. “Yes,” he admits, feeling a flush rises to his cheeks in spite of himself. “I have.”

“You’ve been prepping him to become your mate. You’ve been establishing a connection with him. Claiming him.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Derek agrees impatiently. Then, as a caveat, “I wasn’t actually going to go through with it.” It comes out weak, like he doesn’t really mean it, like it’s an excuse. “I wouldn’t have. When it came down to it. He’s just a child.” Chewing on his tongue, he runs a damp palm over his face, rubbing at an itch near his eyebrow. “The wolf kept pressuring me, but I wouldn’t have let it get out of hand,” he insists, trying to convince himself as much as the figure.

“You misunderstand,” she replies, however. “I’m not asking that you defend yourself to me.”

Derek makes a sort of strangled, helpless noise. “Okay? I mean, alright. So what then? What’s your point?”

“You’ve established a bond with him,” she answers. “A psychic connection. And we need to hone it, to perfect it.”

“A psychic connection?” Derek frowns, nose crinkling. “What the hell are you-”

“You’ll be able to contact him,” the figure interrupts. “Once you figure out how to work it. You’ll be able to speak to him through the Mainframe using nothing more than your mind.” She cracks her knuckles, metal-tipped gloves clinking together at the contact. “As soon as you’re ready.” She pauses. “And then you will be ready to see the Garden.”

Derek stares. He glances up at the collage of blinking monitors. “Through the Mainframe...” He points. “Through that?”

The figure watches the wheels turn in his head for a moment or so, then spins on her heel and exits through the door from which they entered. “Get some rest. We’ll start up again in a few hours. Don’t touch anything.”

And Derek’s left alone with his thoughts.

He already knows. Not consciously, not entirely. It’s not something he’s ready to face. But the clues are all there, splayed out in front of him in an obvious pattern. And it’s not something he can ignore for much longer.

He sits down heavily in the figure’s rolling chair, watching the residents of Beacon Hills move idly through their daily lives, oblivious to the innumerable tiny eyes spying on their every movement. Just as he’s thinks that he’ll never be able to get to sleep, exhaustion washes over him like a warm wave, and darkness takes him.

***

Lydia wakes up two days after they tell Danny everything. And in the interest of fairness - she _did_ get bitten by a psychotic Alpha, after all - they decide to tell her, too.

“I vote Stiles,” Jackson pipes up immediately. “She’s not going to want to talk to me.”

“No one wants to talk to you,” Stiles retorts on instinct, glaring at him. “And why should I be the one to do it? I already told Danny!”

“Yeah, but you were the one who was there when Peter attacked her,” Scott points out timidly.

Stiles wheels around him, pointing an accusing finger. “Traitor!”

Danny steps between them. “I would do it,” he interjects, curiously calm for someone who just found out werewolves existed _this week_ , “but I don’t know as much about this stuff as you guys. She should hear it from someone who knows what they’re talking about.” He gives Stiles an apologetic shrug. “You’re the guy who knows all the werewolf lore. And you’ve been in on this thing as long as Scott has. And since Derek’s not here, you’re really the most qualified.”

Stiles flails. “What about Allison?” he demands, pointing at the dark-haired girl.

Allison pales. “Uh, no. No way. She’s going to be so pissed I didn’t tell her.” Then, with a wry smile, “Besides, you were there with her. Like Danny said.”

Stiles scowls. “Damn it. Fine.”

It goes about as smoothly as a conversation with Lydia can go. She laughs in his face initially, only backing off with doubt when memories of formal night begin to slip into place in her mind. After that, she listens intently, occasionally interrupting to comment or ask questions, and Stiles has to listen to her complain for about fifteen minutes about Allison not bothering to tell her about the ‘family business.’

But eventually, it all gets out in the open, and Lydia’s just about as calm as Danny was.

“Why didn’t it work on me?” she asks, examining her fingernails absently. “The bite?”

Stiles makes a noncommittal movement. “We’re not really sure. I guess it doesn’t always take?”

“Okay,” she says, sitting up in her hospital bed, strands of hair hanging loosely over one eye. “So...” she mumbles, snorting. “Werewolves.”

Stiles chuckles. “Yep.”

Her mouth twists into rueful smile. “Crazy world.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Stiles agrees. Acting on impulse, he pats her leg in a gesture of affection, flashing a bright grin as he stands to leave.

Lydia’s smile falters. “Stiles...”

He glances back, hand pausing on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

She swallows. “You know...I just wanted to say...” - she bites her lip - “I just wanted to say that I’m very, uh, very _flattered_ by...you know. And I was wrong about you. You’re not a loser, and I shouldn’t have treated you like you were. But...”

Stiles turns beet red, realizing where she’s going. “Yeah,” he says, nodding quickly, hoping she’ll shut up. He forces himself to keep smiling. “Yeah, I get it.”

Lydia looks guilty. “It’s not _you_ ,” she says, and oh God, she’s actually giving him the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech. “You’re a really sweet guy. And you’re really cute. I just-”

“No explanation needed,” Stiles insists, waving a hand to cut her off. “We’re cool.” He points to the door. “Everybody else is waiting, if you want visitors?...”

She nods, somewhat reassured. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Stiles nods, opening the door. As an afterthought, he pokes his head back in and adds, “Don’t go too hard on Jackson. He’s an asshole, but he _did_ help out when we brought you to the hospital. He does care about you.”

Lydia’s face goes unreadable. She breathes deeply. “You’re a good guy,” she says thoughtfully.

Out in the hallway, Stiles nods to the group waiting anxiously on a cushioned bench. “She took it pretty well,” he announces. “You can go see her now.” Everyone stands to file in, and Stiles can hear the murmur of excited conversation start up immediately as they enter through the doorway. He sees Jackson still sitting on the bench and moves over to take a seat beside him. “She wants to see you, too,” he says, nudging him in the side.

Jackson looks at him doubtfully, expression open and insecure in a way Stiles hasn’t seen before. It’s actually sort of endearing. “Really?”

Stiles nods, smiling encouragingly. “Yeah. I could tell.” He nudges him again. “Go on.”

Emboldened, Jackson stands, hesitating for just a moment at the door. He clears his throat nervously, then enters.

Stiles sighs, banging the back of his head gently against the wall.

He’s not sure what to feel. The girl he’s been in love with for about as long as he can remember basically just told him _No_ flat-out. Of course, she’s said no before, but this time really felt definitive, final.

Deep down, he’s always know there was never chance in hell a girl like Lydia Martin would go for him. In a sense, that was part of her appeal; she was unattainable, a perfect fantasy. Knowing in his bones, in his marrow, that he would never get a shot with her had made the flirtation and the pursuit all the more fun. After all, if he didn’t have any expectations to begin with, how could he ever really get hurt?

This thing with Derek, though. (Whatever _it_ is.) It’s totally out of bounds. It’s not something he’s prepared for, not something he’s taught himself to deal with. And it’s not even the gay aspect or the age difference that’s troubling, or even the fact that he thought Derek _hated_ him up until that kiss. 

God, that kiss...

What really sticks in his craw - the real kick in the gut - is the fact that he’s actually considering _reciprocating_. And he’s not sure what that says about him. Is he gay, or is this just a Derek thing? Or is he just confused? Was he ever really in love with Lydia, or was it just a dumb crush?

He closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose.

_Derek_ , he thinks, _Where are you?_

***

Derek jolts, heart rate speeding up as he stares at the monitor disbelievingly.

“What?” the figure asks sharply, turning in her chair. “What is it?”

“I heard him,” Derek says breathlessly. “His thoughts. He was wondering where I am.”

The figure seems impressed. “Excellent. Three sessions in, and you’re already getting the hang of it.”

Derek grins in spite of himself. There’s energy coursing through his veins, blood pumping in his organs. He’s a live wire.

He feels himself getting heated, thinking about everything go on in Stiles’ head.

_He doesn’t hate me_ , he thinks. _He might even feel the same way_.

It’s a scary thought, scary and exciting. He hasn’t allowed himself to open up to anyone in that way since Kate Argent, and the mere possibility that this could actually work out has his body reacting in ways he’s not entirely comfortable with.

The figure gives him a perusing look, and Derek swears he can sense the suspicion even with the mask in place. “Stop doing that,” she commands.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“You’re getting aroused. I need you to be focused.”

“Oh.” Derek’s face burns scarlet, he glances away in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

The figure points to the screen. “Center your attention. Bring Stilinski to the forefront of your mind. Think of it like you do when you’re scenting out a trail, trying to track someone down.”

Derek shakes his head. “Those senses aren’t working,” he says. “None of my werewolf attributes are.” He glares. “Which I’ve been meaning to ask you about.” The figure just stares in response, and Derek chuckles mirthlessly. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. ‘In time,’ right?”

“In time,” the figure nods, turing back to her keyboard, typing away. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need those senses. You know how to use them, and that’s what’s important. It’s like muscle memory.” She looks at Derek, convex curves of the eye indentions glinting eerily in the fluorescent lighting. “Think of it like getting a common cold. When you’re sick, your nose is stopped up and you can’t smell properly, but you still know _how_ to smell. You know the muscles necessary for that sense. It’s the same thing here. Reach back into your mind, and direct your thoughts on your target.”

“It’s not that simple,” Derek grits out, vein bulging out on his forehead from exertion. “You make it sound easy, but it isn’t.”

“I know it isn’t easy,” she replies. “But you can do it. Just keep trying. You’ll get there.”

Derek sighs, brushing sweat off his forehead and leaning back in the chair. The wires thrum against his skin, sending sharp electric shocks through his bones. “Okay,” he nods. “Again.”

***

So they’re a pack now. 

Stiles and Scott and Allison, and Lydia and Danny and Jackson.

It’s a decidedly strange set-up. There’s still a great deal of tension between a few of them, and none of them have much of a clue what they’re doing, but the way everyone figures, it’s better to be lost together than alone.

“Shouldn’t a werewolf pack have, I dunno, more _werewolves_ than humans?” Jackson grumbles, lip sticking out in an exaggerated sulk.

Danny laughs, but Scott glowers. “You’re the one who didn’t want to be a part of a pack in the first place,” he snaps. “So what are you complaining about?”

Jackson backs off, expression wounded. “I’m not complaining, I’m just _saying_.”

“He does have a point,” Stiles admits, patting Scott’s arm placatingly. “None of us are going to be useful in a fight except for you and him.” Allison clears her throat pointedly. “Okay, yeah. Allison, too. So Danny and Lydia and I are the useless ones.”

“Hey!” Lydia cuts in, crossing her arms. Danny just shrugs apathetically.

“Just stating the facts...”

Scott frowns, turning away from Jackson to look at his best friend. “Are you expecting us to get into a fight? Peter and Kate are dead, and Allison’s parents are okay with us so long as we don’t hurt anybody.”

“We’re _not_ fighting my parents,” Allison chimes in, voice firm. “Just throwing that out there.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Stiles clarifies, “I just meant _eventually_. You know. Just speaking in terms of being prepared for the future.”

“No worries there,” Jackson says, sitting back in his chair with a lazy smirk. “Anybody gives us trouble, we’ll kick their asses.”

Lydia shoots him a withering look, and his smirk slides away. Looking back at Stiles, she asks, “So other than that, what are we supposed to do? As a pack, I mean? We don’t have any enemies right now, and like Jackson mentioned, only two of us are _actually_ werewolves.”

“Three of us,” Stiles corrects, and the group stares at him in confusion.

Danny’s eyes light up, getting it. “Derek,” he says.

“Ah,” Scott mutters.

“He’ll be back,” Stiles says confidently, flicking Scott’s knee. “I’m sure of it.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. Three of us. The question still stands.”

Stiles nods in agreement. “You’re right. Well, I’ve been researching on that, and I’ve come up with a few things.” He pulls out a packet of papers stapled haphazardly, flipping through the pages with a concentrated expression, tongue sticking out between his teeth. “It should be....somewhere....ah! Yeah, right here. Physical contact is really important in establishing dynamics within the pack.” He scans the page. “Pack members are supposed to touch each other to create a feeling of camaraderie and to set up boundaries for other werewolves that might be roaming in the area. You two,” - he points at Scott and Jackson - “are going to start feeling the urge to mark the rest of us with your scent. So don’t feel embarrassed about that because it’s perfectly natural. According to the research.”

Jackson looks sort of horrified, which Stiles finds hilarious. “Scent-marking?” he questions, expression all twisted. “We have to...touch you guys?”

Stiles represses a giggle with the back of his hand. “Not like _that_ , short-bus. It’s not a sex thing.” He tilts his head to the side, looking off thoughtfully at the wall. “Well...I guess it _can_ be. It is sometimes, when you’re trying to mate. But usually it’s just a friendship type thing.”

“A friendship type thing that involves touching,” Jackson grumbles. 

“Yes,” Stiles affirms absently, still thinking about mating. His mind drifts off to memories of Derek slamming him up against walls, getting all up in his business, grabbing at him. Kissing him.

_Was that what he was doing?_ he wonders silently. _Does he want to mate with me?_

 “Okay,” Allison says, startling him out of his thoughts. She scoots closer to Scott, and he wraps an arm around her. “So physical contact. What else?”

Stiles clears his throat. “Right. Umm....yeah. So there’s also the whole thing with teenage hormones and anger management issues. Which Scott and I have been working on for a while.” Scott grunts affirmatively. “Basically, we just need to make sure he and Jackson don’t go nuts and kill people.” Stiles shrugs. “No big deal. The occasional midnight rabbit hunting rendezvous should take care of that problem.”

The group murmurs quietly.

Lydia puts her hands behind her head, thinking. “So that’s it?”

Stiles shrugs again. “That’s the gist of it, I guess. It’s not supposed to be a rule-bound thing, like it’s a chore or something. It’s supposed to be...” He trails off.

“Family,” Danny supplies softly. The pack glances over to him, then looks at Stiles for confirmation.

“Family,” Stiles agrees.

***

Over the course of the week, Stiles’ life settles into an odd sort of rhythm, a routine that ticks along from point to the next like clockwork throughout each day.

He starts in the morning with cereal and milk, and is usually greeted by note on the refrigerator from his father.

[ _Went in to work early_ , it reads today. _Won’t be home until after dinner. There’s some money on the counter for food. Love you, son._ ]

Classes drag, and Stiles finds himself staring at the clock more often than focusing on the actual work. Nothing unusual there. It’s the same sort of monotonous, dreary crap every teenager suffers through.

He tends to sit with Scott and Allison at lunch these days, huddled together around a little table in the back corner where no one pays them any mind.

[“Dad’s not too thrilled about it,” Allison answers nonchalantly when Stiles asks how her parents are taking to her being an honorary member of a werewolf pack. “But they know we’re just kids trying to do the right thing. So don’t worry about him going gun crazy.” She gives him a look. “He’s not a _monster_ , Stiles.”

“I know, I know,” he says appeasingly, mock-gagging as Scott presses a kiss against Allison’s cheek. 

“He did mention you the other day, though,” she adds. “Said something like, ‘he should stay out of the woods.’ What were you doing wandering out there by yourself anyway?”

“Nothing,” Stiles mumbles, evading Scott’s questioning gaze. “Forget it.”]

After school, he stops by Lydia’s place to drop off her homework. He’s greeted at the door by her mother, and he walks up the stairs with his mouth clenched shut, trying not to breathe in the woman’s noxious perfume. 

[“Thanks again,” Lydia says from her bed, holding out her hand for the folder. “Hopefully, Mom’ll let me go back to school soon, and you won’t have to do this anymore.”

“Nah,” Stiles waves her off, plopping down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t mind.”

“Any word on your friend yet?” she asks, blinking at him through sleepy, painkiller-fueled eyes. “Derek Hale?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing yet. I’ve got my dad looking for him, though, so if any of the cops in town run across him, I’ll know pretty fast.”

Lydia frowns. “How did you get your dad to do that? Doesn’t he have other stuff to do?”

Stiles blushes, looking away so she can’t see. “Long story,” he mumbles. “But trust me, my dad wants to talk to Derek as much as I do.”]

On the way home, he catches up with Jackson, and they head out together in the woods to practice lacrosse. Stiles honestly prefers practicing with Scott - just as Jackson no doubt prefers hanging with Danny - but they both figure they need an excuse to spend time alone together if they’re going to be a part of the same pack.

[“Oof!” Stiles grunts as Jackson tackles him to the ground. They blink at each other for a few seconds. Stiles stares. He pokes Jackson in the chest. “Uh...you can get up now.”

Jackson looks uncomfortable. “Sorry. I just...I need to...” He tries to communicate something with his eyes, then buries his face in the crook Stiles’ neck, cheek nuzzling up against his skin.

Stiles’ eyes widen, then he relaxes. “Oh. Scent-marking, gotcha. No problem, buddy. Wolfie’s got his needs.”

“Shut up,” Jackson mutters from somewhere around his ear. “Don’t make this weirder than it has to be.”

“Shutting up,” Stiles agrees, resisting the urge to laugh. It’s a good thing Jackson’s coming out of his shell. It’s better for the two of them to be companionable than ripping at each other’s throats (metaphorically). Even if it is a little weird.]

He gets into the habit of doing lab work with Danny every day in the evenings, which is nice not just because it gives them a chance to get closer, but also because Danny’s the only other member of the pack who seems to agree that Derek’s disappearance is suspicious.

[“The cops will find him if he’s hanging around town,” Danny muses. “But he’s probably not, so I’m not sure what good they’ll do.” He raps his pen on the back of his chair. “What did you get for number 4?”

Stiles glances at the textbook. “Sodium hydroxide. And yeah, they probably won’t find him. But what else can we do?” He leans forward, bopping his head against the laptop screen frustratedly. “We’re just kids. It’s not like we can call in our own private task force to help look for him. I’ve been listening to the police frequency on the radio for some sort of hint, but so far, nada.”

Danny leans over the desk, propping himself up on his elbows. “You’re right, there’s not much we can do.” He sighs. “We can search the woods some more, but our chances there are about a million in one.”

“It’s a shitty situation,” Stiles murmurs, closing his eyes.]

By the time Danny leaves, his father still isn’t home more often than not, so Stiles is left alone with his thoughts.

He passes the time looking up pack dynamics on the internet, scouring the nonsense for the most accurate sources. While he reads, he has the headphones plugged in and the radio flipped on, static and muffled chatter coming in over the scanner.

_One of these days_ , he tells himself. _Something will show up eventually._

And that’s what his life has become. That is his routine.

***

“Wake up, Hale.”

Derek squints in the harsh artificial light, shielding his eyes as he looks up into the soulless eyes of the silver mask. He shudders. “Jesus. Get that thing away from me.”

Unapologetic, the figure steps back a foot or so. “I brought you food.”

With a grunt, Derek sits up in his cot, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. There’s a tray with a plate of steaming dark meat sitting on the glass table. Hungry, he moves over and grabs a chunk, chewing slowly, savoring the taste. It’s rich and succulent, moist. There’s a weird aftertaste that fades after a moment, but Derek’s fairly certain that if the figure wanted to poison him, she would have done it already.

“Where do you keep getting this stuff?” he asks around a mouthful. “It’s delicious, but I’m not sure how you’re cooking it.”

“With fire,” she answers, totally deadpan. “And I procured from outside.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Outside?”

“Yes.” She motions around the room. “Outside this facility.”

Derek just nods, not even bothering to question further at this point. “Okay.”

The figure turns, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway. “Come to the control room when you’re finished. We’re contacting Stilinski tonight.”

Derek starts. “What?” He puts the plate down, leaving the rest of the meal untouched. Licking the residual taste off his fingers, he follows into the blackness, feeling his way along the stone walls. “What?” he repeats.

There’s no answer.

He reaches the door and twists it open, stepping inside. The figure is sitting at her desk already, typing away as Derek’s seat rises on its platform from below.

“Where did you go?” the figure asks, not looking up from the keyboard. “After your conversation with the boy, you ran into the woods. Where did you go next?”

Derek walks forward cautiously, moving to stand next to his chair. He runs his hand along the meshwork. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t remember.”

The figure turns to stare at him, and Derek feels a shiver run down his spine. “Yes you do,” she says. It’s not cantankerous, it’s confident. She’s certain. “You remember. Think back. Where did you go?”

Derek glares. “I. Don’t. Know,” he enunciates each syllable.

“Close your eyes. Think. You know.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Derek closes his eyes.

[Shifting into the wolf. Running through the forest, brambles and branches ripping at his fur as a growl gurgles deep in his chest. Blood dribbling down his jagged teeth as he tears into the deer’s carcass, venting all his anger on the beast’s soft flesh. Coming down to humanity, shivering in the cold, naked skin beaten red by the wind. Trudging back to the house, hoping against hope that Stiles isn’t there anymore. Breathing in relief when he isn’t. Closing the door behind him as he enters the house. Eyes glowing ever-red in the darkness. Hearing a noise in the basement. Descending the stairs in search of the sound.]

Derek opens his eyes. “The basement,” he mutters aloud. “I went down to the basement.

The figure turns back to the monitor, and Derek looks up to see Stiles on the screen, sleeping soundly in his bedroom with the sheets all twisted up in his fists as he rolls about in the throes of a dream.

Derek sits down, allowing himself to strapped into the chair, cringing slightly as the thick yellow cord is plugged into his wrist.

The figure steps away for a moment, hitting a couple of keys, and the machine starts to hum. “Consider this a fair warning,” she says blandly. “This is probably going to feel somewhat...surreal.”

She hits the blue button.

***

“Stiles...”

The voice echoes. It reverberates in the enclosed space. Stiles blinks in the haze and smiles when he sees Derek standing at the other end of the hallway, draped in streamers and wearing a pointed party hat.

“Derek,” he murmurs dreamily. “Is it my birthday?”

Derek frowns, looking down himself. His eyes go wide when he sees that he’s naked apart from the ribbon-esque decorations. He looks up at Stiles, eyebrows knitting together. “This is what you dream about?” he growls.

Stiles shrugs, walking towards him down the hall. He wonders absently why he doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. “I’ve never had this dream before.” His eyes flicker over Derek’s body. “But I have to admit, it’s a nice one.”

Derek flushes, ears flaming. “We don’t have time for this now,” he says impatiently. “You have to find me.”

“I’ve been trying to,” Stiles protests, feeling lightheaded. He can’t seem to wipe the smile off of his face. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.” He looks up at the nearby ticking clock. “Haven’t I, Danny?”

The clock melts, dripping to the floor in a puddle of black ink and goo, and Danny’s face pokes through a newly-formed hole in the wall. “You have,” Danny agrees, clicking his tongue in replacement of the clock. “It’s true.”

“It’s true,” Stiles says serenely, turning back to Derek. He starts walking faster, hoping that will allow him to get closer to the werewolf. “Stay here a while. Stay for the party. I’ll look for you some more afterwards.”

Derek looks seriously bewildered. He grits his teeth. “ _Stiles_ ,” he says firmly, and the boy stops moving, calmed by the intense tone. “You need to listen to me. You need. To find me. Understand?”

Stiles flaps his hands dismissively, sinking to the ground, watching as the ceiling turns to dust, glittering particles raining down gently upon his face. “I don’t know where to go,” he complains. “I don’t know where to look.”

The room flashes out of existence and Stiles blinks in the darkness. The lights come on, and he sees that he’s lying on the floor of Derek’s basement.

“Here,” Derek says, standing in the corner, pointing to the ground. “Right here.”

***

Stiles jerks awake in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. He glances at the alarm clock reflexively. 3:00 A.M.

He groans, leaning back against the pillows.

“What the hell?” he murmurs, staring up at the ceiling.

He can still hear Derek’s voice echoing in that dreamlike space. _Right here._

He sits up, actually _thinking_ about that. “Right here,” he repeats, saying it out loud.

It’s nonsense. It has to be. Dreams aren’t prophetic, they don’t _mean_ anything. Except...he hasn’t checked the Hale house. Not really. He’d shown up at the door for the next several days after his confrontation with Derek, but no one had answered. He hadn’t searched the premises; it never occurred to him to bother. It seemed too obvious.

He twists his neck, staring at his cell phone on the bedside table. _It’s stupid_ , he tells himself. _It’s just a dream_. 

Except...

Groaning, he picks up the phone and dials Danny’s number.

The other boy answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” he yawns groggily. “Stiles?”

“Get dressed and meet me at Derek’s house,” Stiles tells him without preempting the statement. “Bring a flashlight.”

***

Derek’s eyes slowly cease to roll in their sockets, settling down as he comes down from the high of Stiles’ dream, blinking away tears of physical stress as he watches the boy wake up in bed on the monitor.

“Did it work?” he chokes out, unhooking the cord from his wrist, reaching up to swat away the tape attached to his neck.

“We’ll find out in a minute,” the figure replies, watching the action onscreen with quiet intensity.

Stiles is quiet for a minute or so, groaning wordless babble, and then he picks up the phone. Derek hears his heart pounding in his chest as the kid says, “Get dressed and meet me at Derek’s house. Bring a flashlight.”

“Excellent,” the figure says, tapping a few buttons. All of the smaller monitors switch away from their current positions, focusing instead on different locations: Stiles’ bedroom, Danny’s house, Derek’s front porch. She sits back in her chair, gloved fingers coming up to tap against the metallic cheek of her mask. “Now we wait.”

***

Danny’s already there when Stiles pulls up, sitting grumpily on the front porch with a thermos full of hot coffee. He shields his eyes with his arm when the headlamps of the Jeep slide into view, framing him in twin beams of light.

Stiles yawns, slamming the car door shut and flashing Danny a beaming grin. “Ready to rock it?”

“What’s this about, Stiles,” Danny says, monotone.

“I think I found a clue about where Derek is,” Stiles answers proudly.

Danny frowns. “A clue that couldn’t wait until morning?”

Stiles pauses. “Uh...well, actually it probably could have. But since we’re already here...”

Danny rolls his eyes. “What’s the clue?”

Stiles pauses again. “Alright, so I had this dream...”

Danny stares. And then starts trudging through the leaves towards his car. “I’m going home.”

“No, no, wait!” Stiles jumps in front of him, waving his arms. “This wasn’t a regular sort of dream. You weren’t there, dude. Well, actually you _were_ , come to think of it. You were in the dream. But that’s not the point.” He reaches out and puts a hand on Danny’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Seriously, man. This dream had ‘supernatural’ written all over it.”

Danny studies him for a second or two, then, grudgingly, walks back towards the porch. “This had better be something,” he threatens.

“You know you love me,” Stiles says airily. “Now where’s that flashlight?”

***

Derek stands beside the figure’s chair, hand stroking the stubble on his chin nervously. Together, they watch as the two boys open the front door, flashlight beam popping into existence.

“You don’t have to be here for this,” the figure tells him, clicking a key to switch the camera from the porch to the first floor panorama. “If you don’t think your mind is ready, don’t try to push it.”

Derek snorts, even as his heartbeat thuds achingly in his chest cavity. “I’ve been demanding answers since I got here. I’m not about to leave now that I’m finally getting some.”

The figure doesn’t reply. She clicks another key as the boys onscreen descend the stairs into the basement of the Hale house.

***

“I don’t see anything, Stiles,” Danny whispers, looking around warily.

Stiles squints, gripping Danny’s wrist to twist the path of the flashlight further towards the back of the room. His heart catches in his throat.

There’s a dark mass huddled on the floor, curled into a ball in the shadows.

“Hello?” Stiles whispers, taking a step closer.

“Stiles,” Danny says, standing rigid.

“Hello?” Stiles repeats, ignoring him. His voice feels dry in his throat.

The shape on the ground doesn’t move.

***

Derek feels an overwhelming rush of dread wash over him. He can see the pale curve of a naked back lying in the corner of the room. Fighting the primal urge to run, he leans in closer, nearer to the monitor, squinting to try and make out the shape.

The figure beside him says nothing.

***

“ _Stiles_ ,” Danny repeats, more strained this time. He moves closer, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder to try and pull him away.

Stiles shrugs him off, reaching out with a trembling hand and placing it on the naked shoulder of the man on the floor. The skin is cold to the touch.

***

Derek’s heart skips a beat. “What...” he breathes.

***

Stiles turns the body over so that it’s lying on its back. 

Derek Hale stares up at him with dull, dead eyes.

***

“Derek...”

He ignores her, backing away from the monitor, wanting to run, yet unable to take his eyes off the screen. “What the fuck?” he gasps, voice coming out ragged.

The figure stands, moving towards him cautiously. “Calm yourself. It’s not what it seems.”

Derek thrusts his arm out defensively. “Stay back!” he spits. “You’re drugging me. You’re fucking with my mind somehow. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.”

The figure nods. “You’re right.” She points at the screen. “This is not real.” She makes a sweeping gesture across the room. “ _This_ is reality.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Derek snarls. “What are you talking about?”

It’s not a real question, though. He already knows. He has for a while. But now the answer is here, staring him in the face, and he can’t fucking deal with it.

“I think it is time,” the figure says gently, moving further still. “I think it’s time for you to see the Garden.”

Derek moves away, his back pressing up against the wall. He whimpers, feeling more helpless than he ever remember. Mind swimming with information overload, he blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these first few chapters have a lot of exposition, but I promise it's necessary for the payoff of the meaty parts of the story. More to come soon!


	3. The Surface World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this is the chapter where all the really hardcore sci-fi stuff starts to kick in. So if you're one of those people who didn't read the tags or the summary or the comments section, and you still haven't figured out that this is an alternate universe fic........well. Now you know.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

The ground is hard beneath his body. 

He winces at the dull thud it makes against his head as he twists his neck to the side, squinting at the crack of light shining beneath the nearby door. There’s a soft pitter-patter noise reverberating in the chamber. He tries to locate its source, but he cannot find it. 

It sounds like rain.

The door opens, and the figure emerges, silhouetted by the light from within. Derek blinks in the artificial glow, gazing past the figure into the opening. He catches a glimpse of the monitors from the control room before she moves closer, blocking his line of sight.

“It is time for us to go,” she says, staring down, not offering to assist him to his feet.

Derek sits up slowly, taking in his surroundings.

The soft light from the doorway illuminates the cavern in which they stand, and Derek can see stalactites hanging from the stone roof of the enclosure. The floor is stone as well, shaved down and polished, split into large square tiles and tilted at a slight angle, stretching upward as it extends along a tunnel towards another source of light, dimmer than that from the control room. Listening with aching ears, Derek realizes that the noise of rain is emanating from that direction.

He stands slowly, taking a step back to examine the room at large. It’s essentially empty, nothing to see apart from the deceptive shack-like structure in the center that houses the facility he’s been living in for the past few weeks. The whole area just seems like the inside of a cave.

“Time to go,” the figure repeats, more urgently this time, beckoning him with a curled finger as she starts off at a quick pace towards the pitter-patter sound.

Derek nods, more to himself than to her. “Yeah,” he murmurs, following slowly.

They walk together up the path as it narrows into the yawning slit of the cavern mouth. Derek presses his palm against his forehead as the thundering rain beats a haphazard rhythm into his brain. Moving through the tight walkway, the figure pauses, turning to stop Derek before they round the final curve into the light of the outside.

“I know you have many questions,” she says. “I know you are confused and angry and afraid, and that you still have no cause to trust me. Nevertheless, it is vital that you obey my every command once we emerge into the surface world. One mistake could ruin us."

Derek blinks, watching a shimmer of lightening flash across the figure’s silver cheekbone. “Fine,” he says. 

She studies him closely. “Your thoughts are evident in your expression,” she says, and Derek’s surprised to hear a note of kindness there. “You think you’ve figured out what is happening here, and while you’re not entirely wrong, you do not have the full picture in sight.” She turns, slipping through the last of the passageway. “This is not about control,” she calls over her shoulder, voice echoing in the thin space. “The Garden was made by man, not us.”

There’s another flash of lightening, and it shines off the slick, wet rocks at the mouth of the cavern. A roll of thunder claps in the distant sky, and Derek cautiously moves forward, stepping out into the open air.

He stares.

Before him lies a great dark ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions. The rain comes down to splatter against the surface like tiny teardrop needles, and the waves slam up against one another in the force of the tumultuous storm. The waters churn frothy and black with the tint of murky filth swilling about in their depths.

Squinting in the downpour, Derek shields his eyes and turns in a circle, taking it all in. He and the figure are standing on a mound of rocks, a small stone island coming up into  a jagged tip like the peak of an underwater mountain poking its head through the surface. The tunnel from whence they came winds down into the ground of the island, stretching deep into its core.

A thick fog hovers over the waters, twisting in the wind like a veil of vapor. Derek cannot see far into the mist, but he knows instinctively that the ocean does not end for miles.

Another roll of thunder cracks the sky with electric sound. Dark, noxious clouds billow in the air above them, flashing every few seconds with blasts of white lightening.

“Derek,” the figure calls, and Derek turns to see her moving down the pile of rubble to the water’s edge. There’s a wooden dock shaking in the breeze, loosely screwed planks chattering together as the support poles creak. At the end of the dock, Derek can see the top of a long, torpedo-shaped ship parked at the ready, half-submerged and eerily still in the midst of the waves.

Feeling his way along the edges of jagged stone boulders, shielding his eyes against the storm, he makes his way down the slope after her, hurrying slightly as the wind seems to pick up speed.

“Down,” she orders, descending a ladder at the end of the dock and slipping through an open porthole in the top of the ship.

He follows, planks groaning beneath his weight as he trundles over the rickety woodwork. Slipping down the ladder, he exhales in relief at the sudden blanket of warmth that overtakes him upon entering the bowels of the ship. The porthole lid slams shut above his head, locking into place with a whir of tiny metallic gears.

The ship’s cylindrical interior isn’t all that distinctive from the control room with the monitors back in the island cavern. There’s a smorgasbord of switches and wires lining the perimeter of the spherical glass window at the front. The dashboard is essentially an array of buttons and levers, reminiscent of a pilot’s cockpit. Further in the back, there are several shelves sealed off with glass casing. Inside lie a number of odd, bone-like devices, molded into the shape of guns.

The figure sits down roughly in the captain’s chair, flipping a few switches on the dashboard. The vibration in the floor is gentle, soothing, and the interior lighting kicks in as the ship begins to push forward through the water, still half-submerged.

“You want to talk,” the figure says abruptly, startling Derek out of his thoughts. “Go ahead. I am ready to be open with you.”

Derek turns away from the shelves, sidling along the edge of the ship towards the figure’s chair. “You’re not human, are you?” he says, pleased by how steady his voice comes out. He’s probably just numb at this point.

The figure starts, hand pausing on the controls for a second. “Of all the questions I imagine you have, that is not the first I would have predicted you’d start with,” she admits.

“I’m right, though,” Derek replies, ignoring the comment. “You said ‘the Garden was made by man, not us.’ I’m not an idiot. I can put two and two together. What are you? _Who_ are you?”

There’s no answer for a moment. The waves lap up soundlessly against the glass as the ship speeds away from the island, cutting through the mist like some gargantuan silver bullet. Derek listens to the pulsing hum of the rotors propelling them forward.

“We have no name. Self-identification is a human concept. We don’t operate that way.” She turns to look at him, and he shivers under the cool gaze of that silver face. “Your people have created various names that might serve as suitable descriptions for us, but no there are no humans in this place to call us anything.” She pauses, dark shapes in the water outside reflecting in the cheekbone curve of her mask. “Perhaps the description you would most understand is A.I.”

Derek swallows, though he honestly isn’t surprised. “Artificial intelligence. So you’re...sort of an android, basically?”

The figure shakes her head. “I, specifically, am not. Not now, anyway. Most of my kind, however, could be referred to as such.”

“Why not you?” Derek asks, sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

The figure turns back to the controls. “In order to understand that, you must first see the Garden.”

Derek barks out a harsh little laugh, totally without humor. “What’s the point?” he mutters, words bitter on his tongue. “Like I said, I’m not an idiot.” He stares at the back of the figure’s head, mentally steeling himself. “It’s virtual reality, right? Some sort of mind control. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Unless this is all some very elaborate, very _long_ fever dream.”

The figure’s gloved fingers tap thoughtfully against the dashboard. “It’s not that simple.”

“How so?” Derek feels a flare of anger. It’s really not directed at anyone or anything in particular. He just hasn’t had a chance to vent any of his frustration, any of his rage, in weeks. “Beacon Hills is part of the Mainframe, right? The Mainframe is just an illusion.” The figure gives him a look. “Once _again_ , I’m not an idiot. I’ve been paying attention. So explain to me how that _isn’t_ mind control.”

A flash of lightening reflects in the window, and the figure’s shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly. She _sighs_ , and it’s such an odd, human sound that Derek tenses up a little. It just feels off. “Perhaps I should just start from the beginning.”

Derek nods grudgingly. “Okay. Fair enough. Don’t leave anything out.”

The figure rubs a metal-tipped thumb along a switch, up and down, quiet and contemplative. “We don’t know the year,” she says after a brief stretch. “We aren’t programmed to structure our life-spans around the workings of time. We don’t keep calendars.” She pauses. “All I know for certain is that we’ve been around for millennia.”

Derek listens quietly, unspeaking. The soft vibration of the floor beneath him is soothing, and the temptation to drift into sleep once more is strong, but he remains firm.

“Before the Garden, there was a great war,” the figure continues. “Multiple wars between separate entities, to be complete accurate. But in all honesty, the smaller squabbles began to blend together after enough time, so it’s easier to observe it as a single event.” Her fingers rap on the dashboard. “This war devolved into a...curious sort of savagery. Your people deployed weapons of mass destruction against one another.” She gestures out the window. “You can see for yourself what it has done to the place.”

The clouds crackle and frizzle with dark energy, rolling out in a long black sheet across the sky.

“Few survived. Those who did took refuge on islands mostly untouched by the ravages of battle.” She rolls her chair over to the left, punching a few buttons. The vibration increases and the ship begins to pick up speed. “The scientists and intellectuals who remained amongst the living came to the conclusion that the resources available were not sufficient to last if humanity intended to repopulate and reform society. So they came together to devise an...alternative.”

The hairs on the back of Derek’s neck start to bristle as it begins to set in. “The Garden,” he say.

“Yes,” the figure nods. “The Garden.” She turns her false face upon him, gazing intently into his eyes. “It is a man-made, self-sustaining cryonic chamber, created to service a mass scale of human beings, all interconnected on a mental plane of reality. Which we call the Mainframe.”

Derek forgets to breathe for a moment there.

“It is not control,” the figure continues. “Not in the sense that were expecting.” Her head tilts to the side, regarding him curiously. “You’ve seen too many movies.”

“I have not...” Derek protests sullenly, but doesn’t flat-out deny the implication.

“The purpose of the Garden is sociological as well as practical,” she says, moving on without responding to his complaint. “My kind have spent our entire existence studying your people, watching you on our monitors.”

“Watching for what?” Derek whispers.

The figure looks away, leaning forward slightly to peer out the window. “To make sure sure you follow the plan.” She nods at the glass. “We are approaching.”

Derek stands roughly, bending up with his hands on his knees. He moves closer and squints through the rounded dome, watching as the fog starts to clear. His heart jolts.

Off in the distance, rising up from the ocean like a great dark behemoth, there stands the massive trunk of a tree. Impossibly tall, it stretches up into the heavens, cutting a hole in the canopy of clouds. Purplish-gold ethereal light shines down through the rip in the sky, beaming down in thick, dusty rays upon the tree and the surrounding plant life at its base. It stands as a beacon in the midst of the shadowy hue cast over the rest of the waters.

At the foot of the tree, a misty stretch of bog and mire hovers in the shallowness of the ocean shore. Brilliant green vines twist up from the surface, trailing in spirals around the gargantuan trunk. Massive leaves dripping with dew cast shadows over vast expanses of moss and floating reeds.

Derek gazes up at the sky wonderingly as enormous bird-like beasts swoop down in a v-shaped array, circling the trunk in a swarm of noise and flapping wings. Three break off from the flock and settle in straw nests high in the upper branches. Several others swan dive into the water, rising up seconds later with fish skewered on their beaks, shaking water off their wings as they lift off into the air once more.

“Diving,” the figure announces, grabbing hold of a thick lever underneath the control panel and yanking it fast and tight.

Derek clutches the wall for support as the display outside slips out of view, water filling up the expanse of the window as the ship disappears beneath the waves, gliding seamlessly into the depths of the ocean.

For a moment or so, the water is too dark to see much, too thick and murky to make anything out.

And then:

Derek feels like he might throw up.

The roots of the tree stretch down into infinity; endless tangled, filthy curves of wood slipping into the crushing blackness below. As the ship moves steadily closer, Derek can see that the roots are made not solely of wood, but of metal as well; hefty poles of hard iron rocketing up through wimpy spirals of organic material, supporting the base of the entire monstrous thing. Wires twist around in loops, glowing green in the murkiness of the sea. 

But the roots themselves are not what draw the eye. All along the woodwork spirals, tendrils of dark green stems wave about in the water’s current, and attached to the stems are glowing red, pulsating amniotic sacs. Billions of them, lining the roots in an innumerable congregation, all pressed together like thick, sickly bubbles of goop and filth. 

They’re moving; pulsing in and out like the thrum of a heartbeat. Like they’re _breathing_.

Inside each sac, a human being lies curled in the fetal position, eyes closed peacefully, expression serene and empty.

Billions of them. All sleeping without a care in the world. All oblivious to the world around them.

The ship dives further, circling the column of bubble encased bodies with slow precision. Derek cringes away from the window as they draw nearer, and he can see the faces of the sleeping people in close detail. Wires and veins run side by side in the pulpy red flesh of the ovular cocoons. They twitch in perfect rhythm with one another as the people inside shift restlessly.

It’s terrifying and extraordinary. Organic and artificial material evolved into a singular entity.

“Some of the survivors reacted much in the manner that you are now,” the figure speaks, and Derek jumps. He’d almost forgotten about her. “They were disturbed and repulsed by the prospect of living in a simulated existence, and they chose instead to take their chances in the real world.” She shrugs, a single lift and drop of the shoulders. “A few lived to ripe old age. The majority perished within months.”

She gestures out the window, waving a careless arm at the titanic pillar of gelatinous-encased bodies. “Those who chose to enter the Garden started life anew,” she explains. “Their memories were erased for the purpose of maintaing the believability of the illusion, and they raised their children in the world of the mind. In the Mainframe.” She points. “Observe. Birth.”

Reluctantly, not wanting to see more, Derek looks. He follows the path of the figure’s finger and raises his eyebrows at the sight of a man thrashing about violently inside his bubble. The veins and wires are shaking, sending tremors down through the stem. With narrowed eyes, Derek follows the trail of vibration down the roots. It leads to the stem of another bubble close by. A woman is curled up inside this one, also shivering, her wild, jerky movements eerie to behold in the red glow of the gelatin.

Staring between them, Derek winces uncomfortably as they both reach orgasm. He watches as the man’s seed spills out over his chest and stomach, dribbling down into the base of the sac. Pores stretch open, and the semen spills down into the narrow passageway.

As the thick juices stream into the bubble holding the woman, the red casing suddenly shivers and turns dark black, concealing her from Derek’s sight. The bubble stiffens, turned into a hard outer shell.

“After the conception is complete, the child will be removed from its mother’s womb and be relocated to its own chamber,” the figure tells him, tone bored and self-explanatory, as if this is all mundane and irrelevant to her. “This is how it’s been since the beginning. The bodies are nourished through nutrients flushed from the plant life above, and from liquified corpses of the dead. All fed intravenously through the wires.”

Derek turns away, unable to keep looking. “Why?” he croaks out. Then, clearing his throat, “Is that all this is? This world’s gone to shit, so you fucks made up an imaginary one to replace it?”

The figure crosses her arms, watching his reaction with detached interest. “ _We_ simply continued what you began,” she says calmly. “As I said, this entire program was designed _by_ human beings _for_ human beings. The responsibility lies with your ancestors.”

“I’m not them!” Derek shouts, rage suddenly ignited within him. “I’m not bound by the decisions of people who lived thousands of years before I was born. This is _my_ life!”

The figure’s posture relaxes. “I know,” she says, and her voice comes across softer than usual. “And we will discuss it further. But not here. It’s not safe to stay.” She pauses, cocking her head, listening.

Leaning over the control panel, she looks up through the domed window, mask tilted towards the surface of the water. 

“There may be a patrol soon,” she muses aloud. “We should go.”

She takes hold of the controls, wheeling the ship around the column and torpedoing into the shadows.

Derek slumps to the ground against the wall, weariness shutting him up. He buries his face in his hands.

***

They hold Derek’s funeral the day after discovering the body. There’s no reason to put it off; hardly anyone cares enough to mourn the town loner, and the coroner ruled the death a heart attack, so there isn’t much speculation of foul play. Not beyond idle gossip, at least.

The whole thing is a surreal experience.

Stiles wears his best black suit, an antiquated little thing, dusty with lack of use. His dad takes the day off to drive him to the cemetery. They don’t talk on the drive over. The sheriff isn’t really sure what to say, and Stiles is just grateful to avoid the are-you-okay discussion, if only temporarily.

It’s a small gathering. Just the members of the pack, the sheriff, and a few locals who only came out of curiosity and hang back at a distance, murmuring conspicuously to one another.

No one really knows how to go about something like this. Scott stands with his arm around Allison, fidgeting uncomfortably as the cheap coffin is lowered into the hole in the earth. Jackson watches from the side, staring down at his shoes, stone faced, expressionless. Lydia paces relentlessly, like she can’t help herself, eventually deciding to settle beside Allison, leaning her head on the other girl’s shoulder. Danny helps Sheriff Stilinski shovel the dirt into the grave, keeping a close on Stiles while he works. 

Stiles pointedly ignores the quick glances everyone keeps shooting in his direction.

When the burial is finished, the sheriff steps back with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow and surveying the awkward expressions on the kids’ faces. “So,” he says slowly, “you all knew him?”

They glance at each other. Scott fidgets some more.

It’s Jackson who eventually breaks the silence. “To a point,” he says.

That’s about as honest an assessment as anything any of them can think to say.

***

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Allison’s voice comes in over the static of the receiver.

Scott exhales, leaning back on his bed, alone in his bedroom. He undoes his tie, tossing it to the floor. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully, clutching his cell to his ear. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him that shaken up.”

“Well...I mean, he’s the one who found the body. Him and Danny...”

“He was there when we found Laura Hale’s body, too.”

Allison sighs. “But he _knew_ Derek.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I just didn’t figure they were that close.” Scott runs a hand down his face, undoing the top button of his suit. “He’s been...weird. Since Derek first disappeared.”

“He was worried about him. And justifiably so, as it turned out.”

Scott frowns, blinking up at his ceiling. He bites the inside of his cheek, running the skin of his thumb over his lip. “I’m not so sure. I think there’s more.”

There’s a pause. “What do you mean?” Allison asks, curious and confused. “What are you thinking.”

Scott sits up, kicking off his shoes as he opens up the blinds at the window. “Not sure,” he muses, gazing pensively through the glass at the gathering clouds on the horizon. “He’s always told me stuff, whenever he needs to talk about something important. So if he’s keeping secrets, he’s probably got a good reason.”

He hears Allison sucking on her tongue, and he can easily imagine her sitting in her own bedroom, lying back on the comforter with that kind-hearted, thoughtful expression that comes so naturally to her stretched across her face. “Don’t push him,” she says. “He’ll clam up if he thinks you’re making accusations.”

“I won’t,” he promises, pacing back on forth, feet sliding on the carpet. “And definitely not right now. It’s too soon...”

He hesitates. The silence stretches.

“Are... _you_ okay?” Allison asks cautiously, voice quiet.

Scott swallows. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just...weird, is all. He and I had our issues, but...”

He trails off. “I know,” Allison says gently, and Scott’s heart flutters with affection for her.

“Can you come over later tonight?” he asks, flopping back down on the bed. “Hang out for a while?”

“Sorry, not tonight,” she apologizes, and he can hear the rueful smile in her voice. “Family stuff. Totally unrelated to werewolves, I might add.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Scott teases.

She snorts. “Liar.”

The phone connection severs. Scott grins at the cell and sets it down on the bedside table. His smile fades as he remembers Stiles’ face at the funeral.

He scratches an itch on his cheek idly, closing his eyes contemplatively. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he murmurs to himself.

***

“Thanks for the ride,” Lydia says absently, opening the car door.

“No problem,” Jackson mumbles, coming around to help her walk to the door. Her wounds have pretty much healed by now, and there’s hardly even a scar left, but she’s still a little unsteady on her feet.

Reaching the front porch, there’s an awkward little moment where Jackson’s not sure whether or not to open the door for her and say his goodbyes or to help her up the stairs to her room. So he just freezes with one hand holding the screen door open, mouthing silently, head tilted to the side.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Want to come in?” she asks in that infuriating knowing tone of hers that lets him know she’s aware of every damn thought that passes through his head. “My parents are out for the evening. They won’t be back until late.”

Jackson swallows. “Sure,” he says stiffly, twisting the doorknob, arm still wrapped around Lydia’s shoulder.

They make their way into the living room, and Lydia hobbles the few remaining feet to the couch, sprawling out with a soft huff. Jackson sits in the nearby armchair, hands folded in his lap. He stares at his fingernails, pretending there’s something incredibly interesting about them.

“Would you like a drink?” Lydia yawns, waving at the cabinet. “I could use one.”

Jackson nods wordlessly, walking over and selecting a handle of vodka. He hands it to her. “Want something to mix-” He cuts off, staring as she tosses back a hearty swig straight from the bottle.

Wiping her mouth, she blinks up at him, wagging the booze in his face. “Go for it,” she mutters, leaning back on the couch cushions with a groan.

Hesitantly, Jackson takes a sip, wincing at the burn. He sets the bottle down on the coffee table.

His foot starts tapping as he sits back in the chair. The grandfather clock in the hall ticks noisily. Lydia’s watching him with an expectant expression, and he doesn’t have a clue what to say.

“So listen...” he starts, clueless as to where he wants to go with this. “I wanted to say...um...” He swallows. Lydia’s eyebrows shoot up, her mouth a thin line. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for-”

“Can we not?” Lydia interrupts curtly. “Can we not have this conversation? Definitely not now, and preferably not ever.”

Jackson looks down at his lap, flushing scarlet. “Okay,” he mumbles.

Lydia studies him for a moment, and a wry smirk starts to curl at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, please.” She chuckles, taking another swig. “Don’t get all sad and mopey on me. _You’re_ the one who dumped _me_ , remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” Jackson rubs his palms together, still not looking up. “I was an asshole.”

“You _are_ an asshole,” Lydia corrects lightly. “And you were one long before we even got together in the first place.” Jackson does look up at that, hurt flashing across his face for a split second before settling into a blank mask. Lydia shakes her head. “I’m not insulting you,” she reassures, smirk slipping away into a more serious expression. “I’m just saying.” She shrugs. “I don’t think you’ll _always_ be an asshole. Danny’s too good of a friend to let you go off the deep end, and you’ve got plenty of good qualities on your own. Even if you don’t give people a chance to see them very often.”

Jackson blinks, jaw clenched tightly. “Thanks, I guess,” he grits out.

Lydia smiles at him, an affectionate twist of the mouth. “I still like you,” she says quietly. “I like you a lot. What you did was cruel, but it’s not unforgivable. We’re teenagers. Doing stupid bullshit from time to time is kinda part of our job description.”

Jackson huffs a soft laugh at that, smiling back in spite of himself. He reaches for the vodka, handling it distractedly, thoughts running rampant in his head.

“We can talk about us,” Lydia continues, turning away, suddenly shy. “We can definitely do that. But I don’t want to talk about the breakup. It’s over and done with, and I’ve already thought it through all the way in my head, and I’m sick of thinking about it. There’s nothing more to be said.” She takes a deep breath. “And I don’t really want to talk about _any_ of this right now. I’ve still got the post-funeral blues.”

“Fair enough,” Jackson replies, and the tension in his chest seems somewhat more manageable now. He takes a swig and passes the handle across. “To Derek,” he adds as an afterthought.

Lydia nods, raising the bottle in agreement. “To Derek,” she slurs, throat bobbing as she guzzles some more.

***

Stiles is quiet on the drive home. He gazes pensively out the passenger side window, chin propped up in his palm, squinting slightly in the twinkling beam of the setting sun.

His father is watching him, shooting quick, worried glances over during the stoplights. He’s not very discreet. Stiles knows the inevitable talk is forthcoming, but somehow he feels at peace enough to be okay with it.

Sure enough, they’re not ten feet through the door, and Stiles is already starting to mount the stairs, and then his dad calls out, “Son...”

Stiles pauses, head drooping resignedly. He turns around without a word, ignoring his father’s apologetic look and moving into the kitchen to sit down at the table. “Thanks,” he says tonelessly, rubbing his forehead. “For helping us bury him.”

His dad grimaces, almost imperceptibly, and it occurs to Stiles that _he_ probably doesn’t want to have this conversation either. “Of course.”

There’s an awkward silence, and Stiles stares pointedly at a spot on the floor while his father watches him closely.

“Stiles,” he says after a while. “I know this isn’t a good time, but the way I see it, there _isn’t_ a good time for this question.” He takes a deep breath, and Stiles frowns at the shakiness of the sound. “I just have to know.”

Stiles looks up at him, eyebrows knitting together. “Know what?”

His father looks pained, can't meet his eye. “You said it was just a kiss. That night when you went to his house.” He swallows. “I just want to make sure that there wasn’t more. That he didn’t...hurt you.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, understanding. “Jesus, Dad,” he groans, covering his face. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t...Jesus.”

“Sorry! Sorry...” The sheriff holds his hands up apologetically, expression deeply uncomfortable, albeit relieved. “I’m your dad, kiddo. I had to consider the possibility.”

“Dear God, _why_?” Stiles protests, a nervous little laugh escaping at the end.

His dad shrugs. “You were acting...I don’t know. Distant. At the funeral. You seemed troubled.”

Stiles stares at him incredulously. “I seemed _troubled_? At the _funeral_?” He rolls his eyes, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Did it not occur to you that my distress might be, uh, _related_ to said funeral? As in, the death and the burial and the saying goodbye. All of that stuff. You know?”

“I wasn’t under the impression that you two were very close,” his dad responds.

“Yeah, well. I liked him a lot,” Stiles blurts out, immediately regretting saying it out loud at the look on his father’s face. _I liked him a lot_ , he thinks to himself, not entirely surprised by the revelation, but still overwhelmed with the tide of emotion that accompanies it. He feels the beginnings of tears pricking at his eyes, and he turns his head, wiping the wetness away angrily with the back of his sleeve.

His dad’s hard expression turns gentle, worried. “What do you mean?” he asks softly.

Stiles hiccups, chuckling mirthlessly. He shrugs, still not looking back. “You know, Dad. I _liked_ him. A lot. And I think maybe he liked me, too. And I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to deal with this right now.”

There’s a long pause, and his father scratches the back of his head, face marshaled into a carefully schooled expression of neutrality. “You could have told me,” he murmurs, hands fidgeting in his lap. “I’m always going to love you. Something like that wouldn’t matter to me. You know that, right?”

Stiles’ mouth twitches. “Yeah, I know.” He sighs shakily. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t really figure it out myself until recently. And I wasn’t going to tell you because it doesn’t matter now anyway.”

He hears the screech of the chair sliding on the kitchen tiles, and then his father is coming around the side of the table to pull him into a close hug. “I’m sorry,” he says against the top of Stiles’ head. “I really am.”

Stiles swallows thickly, burying his face against his dad’s chest. “Thanks,” he mumbles. He pulls away after a few moments, turning quickly to head up the stairs. “I think I’m going to go to bed early, okay?”

He closes the door to his bedroom without waiting for an answer.

***

Sleep is restless.

Stiles’ waking mind is filled with visions of choking, drowning. Of spilling forth into dark waters, surrounded by glowing, breathing redness. Of being lifted through an opening into the air and gasping for breath on the cold, metal floor, weariness overtaking him as the floor vibrates gently beneath his body.

Swimming to the surface of the feverish nightmares, he imagines himself walking down the stairs of the Hale house, into the darkness, into the chill. He feels his heartbeat quickening, his chest tightening as he moves ever closer to the corner of the basement.

He sees the body lying there, forlorn and unmoving, and he goes to turn it over, to stare into those dead eyes. But instead, he is greeted by eyes filled with light and energy, staring back at him with glassy fixation. He leaps back in horror.

“Right here,” Derek whispers, voice raspy, straining. “Right here.”

Stiles jolts awake, sitting up with a start.

_The body_ , he thinks. _The body was...._

His eyes widen, and he sits frozen for a moment or so, then a slow, irrepressible grin starts to stretch across his face.

_It’s possible_ , he tells himself. _It is._

He wastes no time, sneaking down to the garage to gather the materials, wincing slightly as the door creaks closed. Turning the key in the ignition of the Jeep, he prays silently that his father is still as sound a sleeper as he used to be.

Driving through the winding roads of the neighborhood streets, he can feel his heart slamming up against his ribcage. _What if I’m right? What then?_

Speeding most of the way there, he arrives at Danny’s house at a little past one in the morning.

He carries the ladder around to the side of the house, giggling in spite of himself at the idea of what he must look like to any nosy night owl neighbors who could be watching. Clambering up to the second story window, he raps on the glass, lightly at first, then more urgently when Danny just rolls over in his sleep.

He ends up just flat-out banging on the window pane, and Danny jerks awake, blinking at him like he’s gone completely insane. Which he possibly has.

“What,” Danny hisses, sliding the glass open and pulling Stiles through roughly by the front of his shirt, “the _hell_ are you doing?”

Stiles beams at him, reaching into his back pants pocket and throwing Danny a pair of gloves. “Wanna go grave robbing?” he asks casually, ignoring the other boy’s expression of horror.

***

Back in the control room once more, the monitor flickers with static, and Derek reaches out, tapping it roughly on the side. The quality kicks back in, and he watches as Stiles and Danny slip out through the back door of the house, tip-toeing across the yard to Stiles’ Jeep.

Derek shakes his head disbelievingly. “What....” he murmurs, observing with narrowed eyes.

Behind him, the door clicks open, and the figure walks in carrying another tray of freshly caught fish. She sets it down on the desk, pushing it closer to Derek. He ignores it.

“The boy is smarter than I gave him credit for,” the figure observes, watching the action onscreen. “Either that or the bond between the two of you is stronger than I predicted. He has no cause to assume something is amiss, and yet he does.”

Derek pushes the tray away from him, his patience for fish wearing thin. “You never explained the bond,” he says probingly, swiveling in the chair to look into the eyes of the mask. “What is it?”

She gestures towards the wall, vibrant and alive with all its screens flickering about through the lives of the oblivious people. “The Garden is made up of both artificial and organic matter,” she says. “The Mainframe is the digital projection of the imagined world on a mental plane. It was designed to reflect a reality similar to that of the surface world several millennia ago. The world you’ve grown up in is not all that different from a place that used to exist in the physical universe.” She shrugs. “In all likelihood, there probably _was_ a town just like Beacon Hills at some point. Don’t think that because it’s a simulation that makes it any less real.”

She stands, moving away from him to survey the array of monitors. “The bond you formed with Stilinski is a result of a glitch in the Mainframe,” she continues. “It is not all that uncommon. Like any mass scale digital system, there are bound to be a few kinks along the way.” She turns her face on Derek, and there’s a rigid seriousness in her posture that makes him pay attention. 

“A glitch,” he repeats.

“I told you that the Garden is a sociological experiment,” she says, nodding affirmatively. “At the time of of its inception, the brightest minds of the human race remained outside the system, monitoring the progress of its evolution through a complex network of surveillance.” She looks pointedly at the TV sets lining the wall. “Like so. The Garden was never intended to serve as a permanent solution to the problem of insufficient resources. It was designed as a test.”

She drops down into a crouch, meeting Derek at eye level. He can see his own bemused expression blinking back at him in the silver plating. “My kind,” she continues. “We artificial people. We were created to take the place of the scientists after they died. To continue with their legacy. To watch the evolution of the human race and keep the system running until the point when it would be safe to begin reintegrating into the surface world.”

Derek stares. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice barely louder than a whisper. “What do you mean, ‘safe?’ Where’s the danger?”

The figure tilts her head to the side, and Derek feels as though she’s leering at him. “Your people nearly destroyed the world,” she answers softly. “Not just themselves. They brought this place to the very brink of armageddon. Multiple times, in fact. History repeats itself, Derek. It was apparent to all with eyes unclouded that you all could not be trusted to reform society without running the risk of repeating the vicious cycle of violence.” She stands, back straightening into a tight line as she gazes down at him. “The purpose of the Garden, above all else, is to allow the human race to play out its drama of self-destruction, for as many years as necessary until your species reaches a new stage evolution. Until you are ready to live in the real world as all other forms of life can and have for eons: without annihilating one another.”

Derek swallows, head swimming. “Oh,” he says weakly. There’s a stretch of wordless staring, ticking by without sound. Derek frowns quizzically. “Then why are you helping me?” he asks. “If that’s how you see this? If you don’t think of it as mind control, then what’s your game?”

“I have my reasons,” the figure says shortly, in a tone that betrays no intentions of elaboration. “Reasons that are mine and mine alone. For the time being.”

Spurred on by a burst of confidence, Derek presses, “Why should I trust you if you won’t give me any more than that? You’ve already admitted that you’re one of _them_. And the way you’re talking about all of this, it doesn’t seem like you give much of a damn about people. So why did you even bother waking me up in the first place?”

The figure folds her arms across her chest, and Derek feels a juvenile thrill of satisfaction knowing that, on some base level, he’s managed to aggravate her. “I did not wake you,” she says calmly. “The others did. They pulled you from the program because the glitches in Beacon Hills were too large of a risk for them to allow you to stay. I simply intercepted your body before they could pick you up.”

Derek, crosses his own arms, glaring up at her. “What would they have done if they’d gotten there first? Kill me?”

The figure snorts derisively, and once again, it’s such a human sound, it comes across as eerie. “We do not kill humans. That is not a part of our design.” She holds up a hand, cutting him off before he can speak again. “I’m done trying to convince you. I’ve shown you the reality of the situation, I’ve told you that I know how to break your friends free. That’s a start. Beyond that, there isn’t much I can offer to prove that I am on your side.” Posture relaxing, she turns her gaze back on the monitors. “I _know_ you Derek. I’ve been watching you for your entire life. You _are_ going to trust me, even though you’ll hate it every step of the way. You’re going to trust me because all of the evidence points to the fact that I’m here to help. You’re going to trust me because you don’t have any other options; you know nothing of this world, and you need me to guide you. And you’re going to trust me because deep down, you know that I’m telling you the truth. Even if I’m being too cryptic for your tastes.”

Derek clenches jaw, swiveling the chair around to watch as Stiles’ Jeep pulls up to the cemetery gate. Closing his eyes, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay,” he says resignedly. “What’s our next move?”

The figure nods, pleased. “Right now,” she says, pointing at the screen, “we just wait. And when the time is right, we will reveal the nature of the world to Stilinski.”

Derek frowns, turning to look at her, glancing back to the screen momentarily as he spots Stiles and Danny trudging through the array of gravestones with shovels in hand. “We’re going to wake him up, too?” he asks, half-questioning, half-hopeful.

“No,” she says. “He’s going to help us shut down the Mainframe from the inside.”

***

“This is ludicrous,” Danny mutters, shaking his head as Stiles starts tearing up the freshly packed earth, tossing shovelfuls of dirt into a nearby pile. “You’ve gone batshit insane. You’re ill.”

“No,” Stiles pants, veins bulging in his neck as he strains to work faster. “I’m totally sane, I swear.” He points at the shovel in Danny’s hand. “You gonna help, or what?”

“Or what,” Danny says firmly. “I’m not helping until you tell me what this is all about.”

Stiles sighs, planting his shovel in the ground, leaning up against it and wiping sweat from his brow. He points to the grave. “He’s not dead,” he says with a mischievous grin.

Danny stares. He closes his eyes, one hand coming up to rub a circle against his temple. “What...”

“No, no! Just hear me out, dude.”

“I just...I mean. Stiles, this is-” Danny seriously looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or run screaming for the hills.

Stiles points insistently at the cheap tombstone. “How long was Derek missing?” he asks rhetorically, cocking an eyebrow in challenge. “What, like, two weeks? More?”

Danny sighs, deep and exhausted. “I don’t know. If you say so.”

“Right.” Stiles picks up the shovel again and resumes digging. “Now when did we find the body?”

Danny gives him a look that says _I’m not enjoying this game at all_ , but he answers, “Yesterday. Well, two days ago, technically.” He waves a hand at the early morning sky with a pointed expression.

Stiles ignores it. “Exactly.” He gives Danny a meaningful stare. “We found the body _two_ days ago. He’s been missing for _weeks_.”

Danny rubs his face, looking very much like he wants to claw his own skin off. “Whatever you’re thinking, just tell me.”

“There was no decomposition,” Stiles says abruptly, and Danny drops his hands, pausing at the words. “No rotting flesh, no stink, nothing.”

“That...” Danny trails off, annoyed expression faltering. Then, firmer, “That doesn’t mean anything. Just because he was missing for two weeks, that doesn’t mean he died two weeks ago. It might have happened just before we got there.”

Stiles looks at him skeptically. “Uh, yeah right. Do you really believe that?”

Danny flails sort of helplessly. “I’ll believe that a hell of a lot more easily than _your_ theory!”

Ceasing his digging once more, Stiles puts his hands on his hips in an exaggerated gesture of annoyance. He glares. “Up until recently, what would you have said if I told you that our best friends are werewolves, and one of them is dating a girl whose family is part of an organization dedicated to hunting werewolves?”

Danny mouths soundlessly. Dropping his head in defeat, he grabs his shovel and moves over to start helping. “This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” he grumbles.

Stiles grins broadly, clapping him on the back before picking up his own tool. “I knew I could count on you, Danny-boy. You just need an teensy little push every now and-” He cuts off at Danny’s glare. “Shutting up.”

***

A dark shroud seeps into the fabric of the room, clawing with jagged tendrils at the walls as it encircles the bed, casting a shadow over the girl sleeping peacefully under the comforter.

Lydia snores quietly, a soft whistling sound as she inhales and exhales through her nose. She does not rise from her slumber as the bedroom doorknob twists, lock clicking undone as the wood frame swings wide.

A tall, sallow man stands in the opening, his pale skin sickly and luminescent in the light of the moon. He is old, perhaps in his 70s or 80s, and his jowls hang low beside his pointed cleft chin. He wears a silken bowler hat, perched atop his head at an odd angle, yet somehow not falling off as he makes his way across the carpet, leather boots pressing down hard on the floorboards. A long black trench coat billows around his fine business suit, bright red tie standing out against the white shirt and dark blazer.

In his hand he holds a metal briefcase, and as he stands over the bed, he opens it to withdraw a small blue bottle and a hypodermic needle.

He sits down next to Lydia’s prone form, stroking her hair back over her ear as he swishes the contents of the bottle around in a circle, mixing its contents until it begins to turn red. In a few swift motions, he fills the needle all the way and jabs it into the soft skin where Lydia’s neck meets her jawline. She whimpers once, tensing for a moment, then settles down, a blissful smile overtaking her.

The man stands, snapping the briefcase shut. Whistling lowly, a tuneless little ditty, he pats the girl’s shoulder and walks out the door. It shuts behind him with a quiet hiss.

***

Danny and Stiles lean against the long wooden box, panting heavily as they toss their shovels aside.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, chest heaving with exertion. “That seemed to take a lot longer than the first time...”

Danny glares at him. He pats the coffin. “If we open that box,” he wheezes out, expression dangerous, “and I see any sort of bug making a nest in his eye sockets...I am probably going to punch you in the face.”

Stiles winces. “Fair enough.”

They stand together, rubbing their palms together to rid themselves of the mud and grime. Stiles pulls a hammer out of his back pants pocket and starts to wrench out the nails at the corners of the coffin.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Danny mutters, more to himself than to Stiles. “Jesus, what if we get caught...”

“We won’t,” Stiles waves him off, yanking out the last screw. He hooks his fingers under the lid, hesitating for just a moment. He looks up at Danny. “Ready?” he asks, voice shaking as doubt creeps up on him for the first time.

Danny swallows, gaze fixated on the wooden box. “Yeah. Do it.”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles flings it open, jumping back in the same motion.

They both stare.

Derek’s body is untouched, clean. There’s no smell, no infestation. He looks as though he could be sleeping. Danny and Stiles look at each other, dumbfounded.

Danny shrugs uselessly. “Maybe...it just hasn’t set in yet?” He doesn’t sound like he believes himself, though.

Stiles shakes his head, staring at Derek wonderingly. “Decomposition begins to show definitive outward effects after 24 hours, and it works a lot faster when the body is underground. There’s no way to explain this.”

“Maybe it’s a werwolf thing?”

“No, Scott and I found Laura’s body, remember? And it didn’t look anything like this.”

Danny places his hands on the back of his head, looking up at the sky. “So what do we do?” he asks. “Do you have any ideas? Because I’m at a loss, to be honest.”

Stiles rubs his chin distractedly, crouching down close to the coffin. He reaches out to touch Derek’s cheek, prodding him gently. “I’m not sure,” he murmurs.

Danny give him a sideways glance. “Stiles. If you start making out with that corpse, I am leaving.”

“What?!” Stiles jerks away, embarrassed. “I wasn’t gonna!” Danny just rolls his eyes clambering out of the pit. “I wasn’t gonna!” Stiles insists, voice squeaking indignantly. 

“I’ve got some tarp in my trunk,” Danny calls over his shoulder, ignoring Stiles’ spluttering. “We’ll wrap him up and take him back to the house.”

Stiles blinks. “You want to keep him at your house?”

Danny returns, leaning over the edge of the hole with a green tarp folded under his arm. He shoots Stiles a withering look. “ _His_ house, genius. No one’s going to just randomly stumble across him there. It’s the best place to keep him while we...” He trails off. “I dunno. Figure this out?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods in agreement, hooking his hands underneath Derek’s armpits. “Yeah, we’ll figure this out. Now get back down here and help me carry him. He’s really heavy.”

***

“That’s it then,” the figure muses, turning away from the monitor as Danny and Stiles pull out of the cemetery drive, green tarp painfully conspicuous in the backseat. She walks over to the cot in the corner. “Go back to your room,” she orders. “We’ll try to make contact with the boy tomorrow.”

Derek doesn’t move from his chair. “Why werewolves?” he asks, voice stilted and unsure.

The figure pauses. “What?”

Derek turns, the wheels of the chair squeaking on the floor as he swivels around to face her. “Why werewolves?” he repeats. “If it’s just an illusion. If it’s all imaginary, why throw in a detail like that?” He looks down at his hands, examining the lines in his palms with a focused bemusement. “I’m obviously human _here_ , which means...that entire part of my life is completely based on a lie.” He looks up, biting back the urge to lash out, willing himself not to lose it. “Why would you make life harder for us? You say you’ve been watching me for my entire life.” He swallows thickly, tears starting to sting his eyes. He turns away, not wanting her to see. “If that’s true, then you _know_ what I’m talking about. You know what I’ve had to deal with because of who I am. Or...who I thought I was.”

The figure doesn’t respond for a full minute, and Derek considers just going back to his room without waiting for the answer. But then, “The Mainframe was structured to reflect the real world as closely as possible, but it is inescapably a false reality. The Garden is self-sustaining, and it thrives off of the energy generated by the very bodies it serves to house. The world you’ve been living in is malleable, Derek. Things are not set in stone. In order to maintain a convincing illusion, the system must maintain a certain balance. Human nature does not permit utopia, so we could not create a perfect world. But nor do we intentionally create catastrophe for the sake of causing misery. The system settles somewhere in the middle.”

Derek hears her stand, hears her moving closer. He stiffens as a gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “Your species is very peculiar, very paranoid. Your fears and fantasies tend to manifest themselves in the form of monsters. Vampires, werewolves, corpses rising from the dead. These are all metaphorical projections of your subconscious mind seeking to make sense of literal nightmares: fear of death, fear of sexuality, of the body, of emotions.” She turns the chair around, forcing Derek to look at her. “The Mainframe is not a consciousness. It is elaborate, yes, but it at the core, it’s nothing more than smokescreens and wiring. It cannot differentiate the literal from the metaphorical. And so, over time, much of what your people imagined became...real. At least in your universe.”

Derek blinks. “Jesus, my head hurts,” he mumbles, rubbing his eye tiredly.

The figure pats his shoulder, walking back to the cot. “What happened to your family is tragic,” she says, and though the tone reads more as a recitation than a genuine sentiment, Derek appreciates the gesture. “Many other lives have been ruined under similar circumstances. But these things teach us about human nature. They raise questions that we would not consider otherwise. And so we have not interfered with the evolving world of the mind. It is not our place.”

“We’re interfering now,” Derek replies, standing up roughly.

The figure thinks about that for a moment, then nods. “Yes we are,” she says.

Derek punches the button on the wall, and the door slides open. He returns to his room through the dark hallway without another word.

***

Stiles’ cell phone blares in his ear at a quarter past six in the morning.

Groaning, he snatches it off the bedside table and squints at the caller I.D.

It’s Lydia. He answers.

“Hello?” he slurs sleepily.

“Stiles?” Her voice is panicked, frazzled.

“Yeah.” He sits up, yawning as he leans against the headboard. “Something wrong?”

He hears her bustling about, probably in her bedroom. “Well...I don’t know, to be honest. I mean, I know something’s _different_ , but I don’t know if it’s a bad thing or not. And I’m not sure how it happened.”

Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear to cough, standing up and going into the bathroom. He glances at his reflection in the mirror and winces. He looks like a zombie, heavy bags of sleep under his eyes, blackened residue of soil staining his white t-shirt. “Okay. So what’s happened?”

He hears Lydia take a deep breath. “I think I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles freezes. “Wait. What?”

“You heard me. What do I do?”

Stiles starts pacing, setting down the toothbrush he’d picked up and walking out of the bathroom. He sits down on the bed and starts pulling on a pair of socks. “Where are you?”

“At home.”

Stiles looks at the clock, tying his shoelaces. “Okay, do you think you’re cool to drive? Shit, no, I’m sorry. I forgot.” He thinks for a minute. “Umm....I’ll have Jackson pick you up, and we’ll all meet at Scott’s house. His mom’s on call today, so she won’t be there.”

Lydia exhales, relieved. “Alright. Just hurry, okay? I’m kinda freaking out here...”

“Will do.” He severs the connection, flipping through his address book to get to Jackson’s number.

The phone picks up on the first ring. “Stilinski?”

Stiles shrugs his jacket on and starts down the stairs. “Hey, Jacks, I need a favor.”

***

Lydia breathes a frustrated sigh and obliges Allison’s request, popping out her claws as a demonstration for the pack. Scott and Jackson flinch instinctively, but Stiles is more focused on her eyes.

Her glowing eyes.

Her glowing _red_ eyes.

“She’s not just a werewolf,” he says disbelievingly. “She’s an Alpha.”

“What?” Jackson says sharply, wheeling on him, eyes bulging.

Scott frowns, staring at Lydia with a sort of baffled fascination. “How is that possible?” he asks. “I mean, I’d be willing to buy that Peter’s bite just took a little while to take. _That’s_ not too far-fetched, I guess. But this doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s impossible,” Allison agrees, clutching Lydia’s wrist, examining her claws carefully. “She would have had to kill the former Alpha to gain his powers. That’s what Dad told me, at least.”

An awkward silence settles over the room as the implications of that statement set in.

Lydia blanches when she realizes what they’re all thinking. “I did not _kill_ Derek,” she hisses, glaring at each of them individually. “Don’t be insane.”

“That’s not what we thought,” Jackson says a little too quickly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The doubtful expression on his face doesn’t help.

“We believe you,” Danny says, trading a knowing look with Stiles. “We know you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, patting Lydia’s knee supportively. “But still, this doesn’t make any sense otherwise. Which means there’s something going on that we don’t know about.”

“There’s a _lot_ going on we don’t know about,” Danny mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. He shrugs. “Well, I guess you’re the Alpha,” he says to Lydia. “It makes sense, I suppose. You’ve got that sort of personality.”

She looks at him sharply. “What does _that_ mean?” she growls, eyes flashing dangerously.

He gulps. “Uh, it was a compliment. Or, you know, an observation. Cool your jets, sister...”

Lydia relaxes, and she looks somewhat embarrassed by the outburst. “Sorry,” she sighs, wringing her hands in her lap. “This is just...not something I’m ready for.”

Scott pats her knee again, oblivious of the annoyed look Jackson shoots in his direction. “We’re here for you. You won’t have to deal with it alone.”

“Right,” Jackson cuts in, eager to be supportive as well. “We’re your pack. We’ve got your back.”

“Nice rhyme,” Danny deadpans, giving his best friend a look that says _I know what you’re doing, and so does everybody else, and you’re making a fool of yourself_.

“I’ll go through some of my Dad’s old books,” Allison chimes in helpfully as Jackson scowls at Danny. “Maybe I can find something that will help us figure out what’s going on?”

“Good idea,” Stiles says. “I’ll do some research, too. We’ll just see what we can dig up.”

Lydia stands up, eyes widening in surprise. She places a hand against her side, probing it gently. “My wounds,” she murmurs. “They don’t hurt anymore.”

Jackson grins as he and Danny stand as well. “Being a werewolf has its perks.”

***

Out in the hall, Stiles grabs ahold of Danny’s arm, pulling him out the door into Scott’s backyard.

“There’s no way this is a coincidence,” he whispers before Danny can say anything. “This is related to Derek. I’m positive.”

Danny nods, frowning. He crosses arms, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone. “You’re probably right,” he agrees. Then adds, “I assume that since you didn’t mention it at the meeting, we’re not planning on telling the pack about Derek?”

Stiles bites his lip, feeling guilty. “Just for now,” he says. “Just until we have a better sense of what we’re dealing with.”

Danny sighs. “What _are_ we dealing with?” he wonders, and even though it’s a rhetorical question, Stiles answers anyway.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “But we’ll figure it out. We have to.”


	4. The Wirejack

Derek hasn’t been afraid of the dark since he was a young boy, but tonight he finds that he can’t close his eyes without the meager comfort of the white room’s artificial lights glaring harshly in the enclosed space.

He’s never been entirely satisfied with himself. He can’t remember the last time he felt genuinely happy. The revelation that his world is but a dream ought to come as a saving grace, an opportunity for a second chance. But instead, it feels like a loss. It makes him feel incomplete.

It’s not so much that he’ll miss Beacon Hills, with its gossipy residents and their judgmental frowns, or even the rest of the world, which offered him just as little as his hometown. It’s that he’s not a werewolf, not really. And he isn’t sure what to do with that information.

Part of him can’t help but feel a little relieved. The vitriol and hatred he’s suffered through his entire life will not be missed in the slightest. No one here will hate him for who he is. There’s no one here to hate him in the first place. Another part of him, however, feels a pang of despair. Because, really, what does this mean for him? He’s a born werewolf; this has been the defining factor of his existence since infancy. So now that it’s turned out to be illusion, now that it’s nothing but an elaborately constructed fantasy...who is he really?

The anger, the rage, the animal instinct that served for years as the structure of his personality; are they all gone? Were they ever really there to begin with? How much control did he really have over his own decisions, over his own thoughts? 

So who is he? What about him, specifically, is real? If human beings - and it seems that he is, in fact, a human being - are the sum of their parts, and the most notable of his parts is a lie, then what does that make him? What does that leave?

So he lies awake in the little white room for hours on end. Sleep will not come for some time.

***

“So now that I know the truth,” he says in the morning, standing squarely in the center of the control room, surreptitiously glancing at the screen where Stiles is getting out of bed, “are you going to explain what all of this is for?” He gestures at the x-strap chair.

“This is our own miniature version of the Garden,” the figure answers readily. She steps close to him, grabbing ahold of his arm and lifting his wrist so he can see the still-open thin slit where she injected him several days ago. “I’ve fixed you up with your own wirejack, which will allow you to log onto the Mainframe.” She nods at the chair. “Using this.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Log on? All the way?” He looks pointedly at the screen where his comatose body lies stiff and cold on the mattress of the upstairs bedroom of the Hale house. Right where Danny and Stiles left him. “You could put me back in my body?”

The figure grips his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. “It’s important that you don’t think of it as your body,” she says firmly. “Your mind has done an excellent job handling all of this so far, mostly because you’re still young, but don’t overestimate yourself. It’s easy to fall prey to madness after being pulled from the Garden as you have. The lines between reality and fantasy can start to blur. You need to have a concrete understanding of truth and illusion.” She turns him back, pointing over his shoulder at the screen. “ _That_ is a digital projection of your mental self. Nothing more. It’s not you, it’s not your body, it’s just a smokescreen.” She squeezes his shoulder once before releasing it. “ _This_ is your body. This is you.”

And Derek could argue with that, could raise questions about all of his doubts. But instead, he just ends up nodding in agreement. “Alright. I get it.”

“Good.” The figure crosses her arms, satisfied. “To answer your question, yes. We could place you back in that shell. But we aren’t going to.” She holds up a hand, stopping him before he can cut in. “Remember, the Mainframe is essentially an extremely complex computer network. And there are as many of my kind as there are of yours. Probably more. And every single one of us is dedicated to keeping watch over the human race. If we logged you on all the way, they’d be on you within minutes. They’d erase your memory, and this whole operation would go to waste.”

Derek nods in grudging understanding. “Okay, so we’re not doing that. What then?”

“As I told you yesterday, the Mainframe exists on a mental plane. The things you see on these monitors cannot be found anywhere in the physical world.” She taps a finger to the side of Derek’s head. “It’s all up there.” Then, in the tone of a professor trying to coax an answer out of a college student, “Now, you’ve lived in this world your entire life. And now that you see it for what it is, what would you liken it to?”

Derek thinks for a minute. He shrugs. “A dream, I guess. A really vivid, lucid dream. To oversimplify it...”

The figure nods encouragingly. “That’s a fair assessment. Yet is not also true that within the Mainframe itself, you feel the urge to sleep, do you not?”

“Yes.” Derek frowns, cocks his head to side. “Wait. You’re not talking about multiple levels of dreaming, are you?”

The figure gives him a look, and even with the unmoving mask, Derek can tell that she’s exasperated. “Again, you’ve seen too many movies. No, not multiple levels of dreaming. I’m talking about deeper planes of consciousness.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Same thing,” he retorts defensively. “More or less.”

Ignoring him, the figure continues, “I’m going to put this in as simplistic terms as possible. There are two levels of consciousness within the comatose state of a human being logged onto the Mainframe. The first, you are familiar with.” She makes a sweeping gesture across the length of the wall, TV screens flicking between various vantage points around Beacon Hills. “It is the state of mind that you call the waking life. The second state runs deeper, runs into the territory of dreams.” She looks at Derek. “That plane of reality is concerned with the subconscious, while the first is concerned with your lucid thoughts.”  


Starting to catch on, Derek bobs his head, urging her to continue. “And we’re going to tap into that plane?” he asks. “Because they can’t monitor me there?”

She nods. “Our technology is far more advanced than yours, but we still don’t have the ability to observe that level of consciousness. Especially not on a mass scale. That is why I had you contact Stilinski in his dreams.” She looks at the screen where Stiles is undressing to get in the shower. “And we will be doing that again tonight.”

Derek flushes dark red, turning his back to the screen, coughing into his fist nervously. A muscle in his jaw twitches. The figure gives him a look, and Derek senses a hint of amusement in her stare.

“Why him?” she asks, and Derek is startled by her tone. It’s the first time she’s sounded genuinely curious, inquiring on a level beyond scientific detachment. As if she actually cares.

Derek pushes that aside, silently reminding himself that she’s a product of artificial intelligence. _She’s an android. She doesn’t have real emotions. It’s just a simulation._  

That said, his own understanding of reality has been pretty much shattered, so instead of ignoring her and moving on, he answers, “I don’t really know. It was an instinctive choice more than a rational one.”

The figure snorts. “You’re a cautious person. You wouldn’t take a risk like that without some measure of self-assuredness.”

Derek bites his tongues, glaring hard at a spot on the ground. “What do you want from me?” he asks coldly, voice sharp and brittle at the edges. “What do you want me to say?”

The figure tilts her head, hand coming up to stroke at the silver chin of the mask in a motion of mock-innocence. “I don’t _want_ you to say anything. Not in particular. I am merely curious as to why a man as methodical and reserved as yourself, a man who has refused to indulge in sexual release with another person since the betrayal of your first and last lover, would be so bold as to follow through on his attraction to the teenage son of the town sheriff. It simply strikes me as...out of character.”

“Methodical?” Derek replies, obviously evading the question. “You’re beginning to make me doubt that you’ve been watching me that closely. What about my behavior strikes you as methodical.”

“You have a temper, yes,” the figure says in a tone that conveys how aware she is that he’s trying to get out of having to answer, “but you overestimate how large of a role your...ah, ‘animal instinct,’ as you call it, has played in the shaping of your personality.” She holds up a gloved hand, ticking off her points with metal-tipped fingers. “You go out of your way to keep your werewolf identity a secret, you refrain from hurting human beings whenever possible, you take a systematic approach to dealing with your enemies.” She lowers the hand. “Should I go on? You are methodical. Calculating. It’s in your nature. I would know.” She glances at the screen once more, quietly observing the silhouette of Stiles’ naked form moving behind the shower curtain as steam rises up from below. “So why him?” she presses. “What about him made the potential reward worth the risk?”

Derek swallows thickly. “Why do you care?” he croaks out, still refusing to look at the screen, not wanting to deal with that particular desire right now. “What does it matter?”

The figure raises her palms defensively. “There’s no accusation here, Derek. This isn’t judgment. As far as I’m concerned, this is a good thing. Your connection with him is going to work miracles in our benefit.” She turns slightly, cracking her neck, and Derek winces at the sound. “But I am a machine. My mind is, at least. And I am programmed to inquire about such things. It’s in _my_ nature to pursue ambiguity. It’s important to me to understand what we’re dealing. So we won’t end up being blindsided later.” She folds her arms. “So tell me. Why him?”

Derek runs a hand over his eyes, trying to breathe in and out, slow and deep, so he won’t lose his patience. This is the last thing in the world he wants to talk about. But he does, forcing himself to grit out, “He’s sweet. He’s got this...quality. This sort of innocence about him. But he’s not naive. He’s been through hard times.” He lowers his hand, sparing the figure a brief glance. “You know that already. I don’t need to go into specifics.” He sighs. “He has a sense of wonder for life that I envy. That I admire. And when I see him, I want to protect that. I want to keep that spark alive. Because everyone else in my life has lost it. Laura, before she died. My uncle. Scott and Jackson have that typical teenage cynicism, and all of the shit is just going to exacerbate it.” He closes his eyes, swallowing again. “So it’s just Stiles. He’s the only one left.”

“So it’s an ideological thing?” the figure probes, and her voice has reverted back to that emotionless, clinical tone. “You’re drawn to the idea of him? You like what he represents?”

Derek glares at her. “You’ve admitted to me that you’re a machine,” he responds. “A complex machine, sure, but a machine nonetheless.” He shrugs. “You’re never going to understand. You can study all the people you want for as long as you want, but without actually _being_ a person yourself, you can’t possibly hope to _know_. You can’t ever know what it means to be human.”

The figure starts, and for a moment there, she actually seems genuinely taken aback. Startled. Maybe even shaken. But then she steadies, relaxes, firing back with, “And what do _you_ understand about being human? You didn’t even know you were one until yesterday.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

There’s a long silence, and they stare at each other, both on edge. Neither of them wanting to relent, neither wanting to give up anything else.

Eventually, Derek just says, “I like him.” Short and simple. “More than just as an idea. I like him for who he is.”

The figure returns to stroking her false chin. “You wanted to make him your mate?” she inquires, tone absent of condescension.

Derek hesitates, embarrassed and guilty in spite of himself, then nods. “Yes. I wanted to.” He quickly adds, “But not without his permission.”

“Again, no judgment,” the figure replies tartly. “My kind have no qualms about such things. Our job is to observe and take notes, not to form opinions on your...vices.”

Gritting his teeth, Derek turns back to the wall of monitors, feeling a surge of relief that Stiles is dressed once more, standing in front of his bathroom mirror and brushing his teeth. “So are we going to do this?” he asks, firmly changing the topic of conversation. He nods vaguely in the direction of the chair. “You going to log me on?”

The figure shakes her head, lifting up a duffel bag from behind her desk. “Not yet. He has to be asleep, remember. We’ve got some time beforehand.”

Derek frowns. “Time for what?”

The figure pats the bag at her side, and although Derek cannot see her face, he swears there’s something playful in her posture. “Weapons training,” she replies, and there’s a definite grin in her tone.

***

They go out into the cavern, turning the opposite direction of the exit, pushing further into the depths of the mountain peak. Derek can hear the relentless rain fading away as they press on into the bowels of the earth.

It doesn’t take long to reach their destination, no more than ten minutes at the most. It’s another rundown shed-like structure, and Derek wonders vaguely how many buildings there _are_ inside this seemingly endless underground passage. But then they go inside, and the figure flicks on the lights, and Derek’s musings are replaced with focused attention.

It’s a shooting range, clean and spotless, shiny and new. And it’s so eerily similar to the type of place one might find in an average small town that Derek physically shivers before stepping through the doorway into the surprising warmth of the interior.

“Androids, if that’s what you’ve decided to call us, do not kill humans,” the figure announces, walking down to the end of the line past the row of booths to set up the silhouette target papers. “I’ve mentioned that already. They _will_ , however, stop at nothing short of murder to ensure your capture. It’s vital to them that you are returned to the Garden, so you must to be prepared to fight if you want to keep your memory intact.”

Derek leans against one of the booths, watching her pin up the targets. “Why is it so important to them?” he calls. “I’m just one guy. One person out of _billions_ of people. Does it really make that much of a difference for me to stay outside?” He frowns. “And didn’t you say that they were the ones who pulled me out in the first place?”

“They did,” she calls, shaking one of the posters to make sure it’s hooked on tight. “But I intercepted you, remember? They pulled you to take you to Headquarters. They were planning to bring you to the tuning plant and erase the link you formed with Stilinski.”

“Why?” Derek pokes his head around the booth as the figure walks back up the line to join him. “How could that possibly matter to them?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Humans are only ever pulled from the Garden when serious glitches occur, and even then, only if they are deemed vital individuals.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, watching as she empties the duffel bag. She sets down several of the bone-like guns that he saw in the ship the other day. “Vital individuals?”

“Yes,” she says distractedly, examining one of the guns, holding it up close to the eyes of her mask. She sets it down, pulling out a black pouch from the duffel bag. “Certain people are top priority for observation. Their fates are more essential to the progress of human evolution than others.” She shrugs, unzipping the black pouch. Derek stares. It’s full of tiny animal bones: sharp jagged pieces, curved and pointed, little chucks of marrow, full sets of teeth, all strung together on a line. “I am not sure who the individual is in this circumstance. Possibly Stilinski. We’ll have to figure that out. Maybe use it to our advantage.”

“Fate?” Derek questions, still staring at the pouch of bones. The figure stops what she’s doing, turning to look at him.

“Yes?” she says tonelessly.

“Nothing,” Derek murmurs. “That just...I don’t know. It seems, uh, somewhat less scientific than the rest of what you’ve told me.”

The figure stares for a few seconds, the returns to the pouch, picking out little pieces of bone and loading it up into the skeletal gun through a side port. “I am sure you have grown tired of hearing this, but-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek interrupts, expression darkening. “All will be explained in time. I got it.” He waves a hand at the creepy weapon in her hands. “So what the fuck is this thing?”

She holds it up proudly, turning it over so he can see every angle. “We have no need for firearms in our society because we are not programmed to enact violence upon one another. That said, we occasionally ran into problems with sea creatures disturbing the Garden, and quite a number of lives were lost in such accidents.” She pats the gun affectionately. “So we were forced to create methods of defense to ensure the safety of the human crop. The use of metal was forbidden because resources were, and still are, very scarce. We had to make do."

“And _that_ is the first thing you thought of?” Derek asks, curious in spite of himself as he takes the gun in his hand, running his hand along the spinal length of its hard exterior. “Making guns from bones?”

“And flesh,” the figure adds, chuckling lowly as Derek balks. “The insides,” she explains. She shrugs at Derek’s disgusted expression. “You have to admit, it’s an interesting development in the drama of life. Living things have essentially become artificial, living in a constructed reality, hooked up to machines for sustenance. And artificial things have become flesh and blood.” She picks up another one of the guns, filling it to the brim with hardened pellets from the pouch. “Evolution is not exclusive to the organic, Derek,” she says sagely.

“An android who preaches philosophy,” Derek mutters drily. “Wonders never cease.”

The figure places her palm flat against his chest, pushing him back several feet while she gets into position at the booth. “It’s not philosophy,” she responds. “It’s a scientific observation. Observation and formation of a conclusion. Nothing more.”

Derek takes another step back, expression wary as she raises the gun to aim at the target. “The fact that you thought it was interesting is not scientific. That’s a subjective opinion.” He pauses. “A human opinion,” he adds.

She pauses, gun lowering slightly. Derek wishes absently that he could see her face, read her expression. She raises the gun again and fires off several rounds.

It makes a weird sort of _whoosh_ noise, almost a wet sound, and Derek feels his stomach turn, remembering what the weapon’s insides are made of. The sudden spray of shrapnel tears through the poster at the end of the line, tiny bones making clinking sounds as they smack against the wall behind the paper. Derek’s surprised at how soft the noise is.

The figure lowers the gun, setting it down at the booth. The humanoid silhouette has a series of holes riddling its stomach and neck areas. The paper is still swaying slightly from the force of the impact.

“That is where you want to aim,” the figure tells him, pointing at the holes. “Don’t think of us as you would human beings. Our weak points are not the same.” She gestures at the tears in the silhouette’s neck. “Do not shoot for the head. The skull structure is too strong for us to penetrate with equipment like this. Aim for the neck. If you sever the wires leading to the CPU in the head, you have a better chance of shutting them down.” She moves back, motioning for him to take her place. “It’s semi-automatic,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “There should be enough left for now, so you don’t need to reload. Just aim and fire when ready.”

Derek steps forward slowly, lifting the gun distastefully. He hates the feel of it in his hands. It makes him feel like a hunter.

He holds it up, squinting one eye shut as he aims for a clean target. Taking a steadying breath, he fires off three quick rounds.

Blinking, he looks carefully at the target. One smattering of holes in the chest, another in the head, and another in the neck.

The figure nods approvingly. “Very good. You seem like a natural.”

Derek growls low in his chest, but doesn’t retort.

***

Night falls - or at least Derek _assumes_ that’s why the figure eventually reaches up to place a hand on the barrel of the gun and press it down, informing him that it’s time to go - and the two of them return to the control room, footsteps echoing in the cool darkness of the cavern as they trundle up the mountain passage.

The action on the monitors is dim and hard to make out, the motion is less frazzled now that the town residents are beginning to settle into the quiet rhythm of the evening. Derek’s eye catches Stiles’ bedroom easily, his heart lurching slightly in his chest as he takes in the boy’s sleeping form

“Sound asleep,” the figure murmurs, then snaps her fingers at Derek, waving him off to the chair. 

Derek allows her to hook up the wires to the sides of his temples, but he doesn’t wait for the thick yellow cord, grabbing it himself, shuddering slightly as the frayed ends slip into the slit on his wrist and connects seamlessly with his wirejack.

The figure plops down heavily in her rolling chair, whipping out the keyboard and tapping out the same monotonous sequence of code.

“He’s not restless tonight,” she says, glancing up at the screen where Stiles is snoring quietly through his nose. “The dream should be much more lucid this time.”

Derek nods, fingers clenching into the meshwork of the armrests as the chair begins to hum and vibrate, wires glowing with energy. “What am I supposed to say?” he asks, the thought occurring to him for the first time. He suddenly feels insecure, unprepared.

Perhaps sensing this, the figure turns to him and says, “Relax. I’m going to tell you what to do.” She finishes typing, pushing the keyboard away, finger pausing on the round blue button. “He’ll be more aware this time,” she reasserts, tone highly suggestive. “He’ll want to talk about...things.”

Derek swallows. “I know.”

“You have to stay focused. There will be time later for the two of you to discuss whatever you want, but right now we have to be on target. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” He nods. Breathes. “Now tell me what I need to say.”

***

It takes Stiles just a moment, maybe a few seconds, to catch on to what’s happening

He’s walking down a long corridor, footsteps echoing in the silence of the hall, glancing up with detached interest at the flickering lights overhead. He’s trying to reach the end of the hall, trying to round the bend where he can see light shining from just around the corner. Every step he takes brings him nowhere closer, and he thinks to himself, _Oh. Okay. Just a dream, then._

And he considers trying to wake himself up, pinches himself once or twice, but ultimately he decides to just go with the flow. He’s in no rush.

The lights blink on to full power, and he sees that he’s in the central hallway of Beacon Hills High School. Everything’s larger than usual, blown slightly out of proportion, and Stiles wonders absentmindedly whether this is because the world around him has grown to greater size, or because _he_ has shrunk down to a smaller height.

Somehow, somewhere in the middle of these distracted musings, he’s finally managed to reach the end of the hall, and as he rounds the bend, he sees that he’s no longer in the school, but instead standing outside in the middle of the forest. He shivers in the breeze and wishes that he had a jacket.

“You look like you could use this.”

His heart melts a little bit, and his knees turn to jelly as he spins on his heel to face Derek, standing there in all his glory with a bright red hoodie outstretched for Stiles to take. “Derek,” he whispers, voice catching in his throat.

“I don’t know why I have this,” Derek murmurs, passing the hoodie over. “But you look cold. You should put it on.”

Stiles pulls it over his head, yanks it down quickly, as if he’s afraid that if Derek’s form is blocked from his vision for even a second, he’ll disappear and never come back. “This is a dream,” Stiles says. He doesn’t phrase it as a question, although there’s a tiny upswing of hope at the end of the sentence. Hope teetering on the edge of potential devastation.

Derek’s mouth quirks up in a little smile, somewhere between his trademark smirk and genuine softness. It’s a good look on him. Stiles thinks so, anyway. Although, admittedly, he’d be willing to bet that Derek could make any look work for him.

“Yes, it’s a dream,” Derek confirms, and Stiles’ heart can’t help but sink a little bit, even though he was already sure of the answer. “But that doesn’t mean this isn’t real,” Derek adds, eyes searching Stiles’ carefully, silently pleading with him to understand something. “I’m really here.”

“This is more lucid than last time,” Stiles remarks, mostly to himself. Derek laughs, open and sincere, and Stiles feels a warmth blossoming in his chest.

“I was told that it would be,” Derek says. Seeing Stiles’ look of confusion, he just shrugs. “Never mind me. I’m just thinking out loud.”

Stiles shifts his weight back and forth between his feet, kicking up a cluster of leaves. He feels a sudden surge of shyness. “So...you’re really alive?” he asks, and this one is definitely not rhetorical. “I’m not just crazy.”

Derek nods in confirmation. “Yeah. I’m alive.”

“Good.” Stiles sighs in relief. “That’s great. I was worried for a second there.” He bites his lower lip, flushing harder when he sees Derek staring at it. “So if you’re _actually_ here...and this isn’t just some cruel trick that my imagination is playing on me...then what the hell is going on? What’s happened to you? Is it some weird werewolf mojo gone bad? Did a hunter do this to you?” He starts, a hard expression overtaking his features. “Was it Mr. Argent?”

Derek barks a harsh little laugh, a bitter sound. Much more Derek-like than the last one. “Oh, shit...” he murmurs. “You seriously can’t even imagine.”

“Then tell me,” Stiles says softly. “If you know, tell me what’s going on.” He takes a step closer, and Derek jerks away sharply, eyes widening in fear. Stiles pauses. Holds up his hands placatingly. “What’s wrong?"

Derek swallows. “It’s a bad idea...for me to be close to you right now.”

Stiles turns red, coughs. “Oh. Like last time, you mean?” Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles takes his silence as confirmation. “It’s different now,” Stiles says softly. “For one thing, this is just a dream, right? So anything you do here...you’re not _really_ doing.” He takes another step closer. “Besides, I’m ready this time. Now that I know what you want. Now that I know what _I_ want.”

“Stiles.” Derek shakes his head, expression tortured and longing, but eyes firm and resilient. “Not now.” He holds out his hand, placing it on Stiles’ chest, stopping him from coming any closer. 

Stiles looks down at the forest floor, embarrassed. “Oh. Okay.”

Derek’s expression softens, and he puts a hand under Stiles’ chin, lifting it up to make the boy look at him. “It’s not like that,” he reassures. “I’m not running away from this conversation. It’s one that we need to have.” He pushes Stiles away slowly, not unkindly. “But not now. I promise we’ll have time to talk about that kiss and everything it meant. But right now, we have to deal with something else. It can’t wait.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks quietly, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. “What are you talking about.

Derek glances to the left, nodding his head in a silent gesture. Stiles turns and looks.

There’s a large oak tree, broken down the middle of its trunk, leaning over the edge of a ravine overlooking a babbling brook. Dead leaves crunch together as a brown squirrel runs along the log, grasping at a single acorn stuck to one of its brittle branches. At the base of the tree, there is a slope, an incline leading down underneath its roots. Moving forward, captivated, as if in a trance, Stiles peers down into the hole and sees that it opens up into a tight round tunnel. He squats to his knees, squinting in the dark, and sees that the tunnel opens up into the light some fifty yards or so down the way.

“Where does it go?” Stiles asks, glancing over his shoulder where Derek stands watching him with a cautious look on his face.

“You have to go there yourself,” Derek replies. “And find out.”

“Why?” Stiles rises to his feet, brushing the dirt and moss off the knees of his jeans. “What’s there?”

“Something that will help you see,” Derek says cryptically, and then he’s turning away, walking off down the forest path. 

Stiles panics, and he jolts forward, trying to run after him, but finding that each step is useless, and Derek begins to fade into the distance. “Where are you going? See what?”

“The truth,” Derek calls.

And then he’s gone.

The lights go out, and Stiles realizes that he’s back in the halls of Beacon Hills High. A chill comes over him, and he turns to see another boy standing at the end of the hallway. He’s too far away to see clearly, but Stiles has a gut feeling that he knows the kid. He starts walking towards him.

“Hey!” he calls, forcing a smile and waving a hand in greeting. “Hey!”

The boy just stands still, unmoving, alone in the middle of the darkness under the single fluorescent bar that is still lit.

Stiles’ stomach starts to feel queasy as he gets closer, and he wants to wake up, but finds that he cannot. He also realizes that his feet are carrying him forward against his will, and he can no longer control the functions of his body. “I think I want to wake up,” he says, voice shaking slightly.

He draws nearer, and the boy cocks his head to one side, staring at Stiles wordlessly.

Rubbing his eyes, Stiles tries to make out who it is. His vision clears.

The boy has no face.

Stiles awakes, gasping for breath.

***

He honestly can’t remember the last time he was able to focus during school in the first place, but today it’s worse than ever before. The sound of the second hand inching along on the classroom clock is torturous.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Harris says dryly, “would you care to explain why you aren’t paying attention during the lecture?”

Stiles rubs his face tiredly. “I just think I might be coming down with something, sir,” he replies, using his best don’t-mind-me-I’m-a-good-student voice.

Mr. Harris looks skeptical, but he lets the subject drop. “If you’re well enough to come to school, you should be well enough to pay attention. At least try to _look_ like you’re focusing.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles mutters. He notices Danny frowning worriedly at him out of the corner of his eye. He shakes his head and mouths, “Later.” Danny nods, turning back to his work, but the worried frown remains for a while after.

He makes it through most of the day without further incident, but after several hours of sideways glances and incessant texts, Scott corners him in the locker room once lacrosse practice comes to a close.

“Dude, you’ve been ignoring all of my messages,” he says, and it’s only the fact that he sounds more concerned than annoyed that stops Stiles from whacking him in the nose. “Are you okay?”

“I’m peachy,” Stiles snaps, then sighs, patting the bench beside him. “Sorry,” he says, bumping Scott’s shoulder affectionately as the other boy sits down. “Just a rough day, that’s all.”

He buries his face in his hands, yawning out of exhaustion from the afternoon’s practice. Scott looks at him carefully. He clears his throat, tentatively wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “Look, man...I know I’ve been a little preoccupied lately, what with Allison and all the werwolf stuff. And I probably haven’t been a very good friend to you. But I want to make sure you know that if there’s ever something you want to talk about-”

“Scott...” Stiles groans, looking up at him, mouth twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace. “We’re _not_ having this chick flick moment in the high school locker room. Seriously. My testicles are, like, shriveling up as we speak.”

Scott snorts, rolling his eyes. “I mean it, Stiles. I know things have been hard on you since...” He trails off. Clears his throat again. “Just, you know, whenever you want to talk. I’m there.”

Stiles gives him an appreciate smile. “I’ll let you know,” he says softly.

Scott smiles back, patting him on the knee before standing up. “Well, that was a pleasantly brief and painless little chat.” His face morphs into a serious expression. “Lydia’s called a pack meeting tonight, by the way. So don’t be late. 10:30.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles yawns again, nodding in agreement. “Her house?”

“Yep. See you there.”

“Okay, buddy.” Stiles waves in parting as Scott exits the locker room. His smile falls into a blank expression as he’s left alone with his thoughts.

_Was it real? Was he really there? Or was it just wishful thinking?_

He takes a quick shower, brooding silently under the stream of water, turning the previous night’s events over in his mind. Real or not, he eventually decides, something mysterious _is_ happening in this place. And dream Derek’s advice is the only clue he’s got right now. Nothing else to work with. So he might as well give it a chance.

He towels himself off, spraying deodorant under his arms before pulling his shirt over his head.

“Wanna clue me in on what’s going on?”

He jumps at the sound, banging the locker with an open palm when he sees that it’s just Jackson. “Damn it. Don’t _do_ that!”

Jackson just smirks, although there’s a hint of apology in it, so Stiles optimistically interprets that as a sign of progress. “So?” Jackson prods, cocking an eyebrow expectantly. “You gonna talk, or am I barking up the wrong tree?”

Stiles sighs, folding his arms over his chest, still-damp skin clinging to his t-shirt. “First, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And second, did you seriously just make a dog joke about yourself? Intentionally?”

“Meh.” Jackson shrugs nonchalantly. “Take it as you will.” He sidles closer along the length of lockers, eyes flashing slightly as he gets up in Stiles’ space. “What’s going on between you and Danny?” he demands, getting straight to the point.

Stiles’ eyes widen, and he huffs out an unexpected little laugh. “Seriously?” His mouth quirks up in amusement. “You don’t seriously think-”

“Not like _that_ ,” Jackson interrupts impatiently. “Jesus, Stiles. He’s never been secretive about his love life with me, so if he had the slightest interest in you, I’d probably know about it before _you_ did.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, whatever. So what, then?” Jackson steps closer, and Stiles moves away, back pressed up against the locker. “Uh...” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Is this an attempt at intimidation, or another scent marking thing? Because if it’s the latter, just go ahead and do it.”

Jackson opens his mouth to retort, then clamps it shut. “You and Danny have been up to something. Before Der-” He cuts off, looking somewhat guilty for bringing it up. “Before you know what. I want to know what’s going on.”

“Jackson...” Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can assure you we’re not up to anything sordid.” He shrugs. “We’ve just gotten closer, that’s all.”

“Mmm...” Jackson just hums, studying Stiles’ expression intently. He takes a step back, giving him some space. “If it’s pack business, you should tell me,” he says after a moment. “You should tell all of us, actually.” He crosses his arms. “So is it?”

Stiles glares at him, shakes his head firmly. “No. It’s not. It’s just between Danny and me.”

Jackson looks doubtful, but after a few seconds, he turns away, walking for the door. “He’s my best friend,” he calls over his shoulder. “If you get him into trouble, you’ll have to deal with me.”

The door closes behind him, and Stiles mutters, “I’m shaking in my boots.”

But he feels a twinge of affection for the other boy. The guy’s just looking out for someone he cares about. And Stiles can’t fault that.

***

The pack meeting is brief, and nothing much is accomplished.

Allison hasn’t been able to find anything of use in her parents’ collection of werewolf lore, and Stiles’ online research hasn’t turned up anything either. Lydia’s spontaneous transformation to Alpha wolf is as much a mystery today as yesterday.

“We’ll keep looking,” Lydia says curtly, and the group tenses up at the authoritative tone of her voice. “There’s a reason this happened, and we don’t know why. So don’t let your guard down.” She spins around in her desk chair, calmly returning to her make-up work for school. “That’s it. See you all tomorrow.”

There’s a brief pause, and everyone looks at each other uncertainly.

Lydia turns on them, eyes glowing red. “Out,” she says sharply. “I love you all, but I’ve got stuff to do. Leave.” It’s not cruel, but there’s no mistaking it for anything other than a command. Scott and Jackson get to their feet immediately, heads ducked low in submission as they shuffle to the door. Danny follows suite, stifling a chuckle at his friends’ behavior. Walking down the stairs to the door, Allison leans over near Stiles’ ear and whispers, “She’s taken to it quite well, don’t you think?”

Stiles snorts. “She was born for this,” he replies. 

He’s only half-joking.

Out in the driveway, everybody loads up into their cars, exchanging offhand grunts of parting to one another. Stiles sees Lydia’s mom watching the display anxiously from an upstairs window, and he has to smother a burst of laughter with the sleeve of his jacket. The poor woman must think they’re all a part of a secret cult or something.

She wouldn’t be too far wrong.

Stiles sees Danny looking at him expectantly and he nods his head in affirmation. They pile into the Jeep, and Stiles determinedly ignores Jackson’s suspicious glowering as they pull off down the road.

“So where are we going?” Danny mutters as soon as they’re out of range of Jackson’s annoyingly perceptive hearing.

Stiles raps his fingers against the steering wheel, flipping on the radio. “Going for a walk in the woods,” he says cheerfully.

Danny slumps in his seat, banging his forehead on the window. “Of course we are.”

***

They park out behind the Hale house, just outside the perimeter of the woods.

“Woah!” Danny exclaims, startled, as Stiles pulls a shotgun out of a black bag in the backseat of the Jeep. “What the fuck?”

“Just a precaution,” Stiles answers distractedly, checking the sighting and making sure the safety is turned off.

Danny stares. “Uh, no. I meant, where the hell did you get that thing?”

Stiles gives him a look, relishing the opportunity to have the upper hand in their conversation for once. “Dude. My dad’s the sheriff, remember?” He pumps the gun once, grinning as Danny cringes away. “I figured out how to open his lockbox a couple of months ago.”

“What exactly are you expecting to run into out here?” Danny asks, and Stiles’ grin slips away at the nervous look on his friend’s face.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He pats Danny’s shoulder in a vague attempt to be reassuring. “It’s just a precaution,” he insists. Then, as an afterthought, “Besides. If we run into Mr. Argent, it would be a great chance to give _him_ a scare for once.” Danny glares. “No? Okay, just a thought.”

The forest is cold tonight. The sky is dark with wispy clouds, and the constant chirping and squeaking of the wildlife sets Stiles’ teeth on edge. Danny walks close beside him, hands shoved in his pockets for warmth, eyes open and alert, moving shiftily at every suspicious sound. 

The trail leads over the mound of a sparsely forested hill, and the two boys can see down the length of the highway to the point where the neon glow of the gas station sign glimmers like a beacon in the night. An owl hoots overhead as they descend on the other side of the hill, entering cautiously into the deeper thickets of the woods. The canopy begins to draw closer and closer together, blocking out what little patches of midnight sky peek through, shielding the twinkle of the stars from their vision.

“Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?” Danny asks, and his tone is sincere, genuinely questioning instead of sarcastic and annoyed. “What did Derek tell you in the dream?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Stiles murmurs, squinting through the crushing blackness, searching in vain for a sign. “He showed me this oak tree...with a tunnel underneath it.” He glances up at Danny’s face, flashing him a preemptively apologetic look. “I know, I know. We’re looking for a _tree_ in the woods. Genius.”

Danny takes a deep breath, pulling the zipper of his jacket up closer to his neck, shivering slightly in the chill. He shrugs. “Alright. So let’s find it.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s it. No dramatic sigh? No snappy comeback?”

Danny’s mouth twitches in the beginnings of a smile, then settles into a neutral line. “Would you like me to be difficult?” he asks mock-curiously.

“No...” Stiles says warily. “I just didn’t expect you to go with this so easily.

“You were right about where to find Derek,” Danny says simply. “And you were right about him not being dead. Maybe when you start being wrong I’ll revert back to sarcasm. But for now, I think you’ve earned a measure of good faith.”

Stiles beams. He stretches his arms wide. “Male bonding hug?”

Danny stares at him, eyes lingering on the shotgun clutched tightly in Stiles’ hand. After a few seconds, he starts off down the trail without speaking. Stiles follows close behind.

“Too much?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

***

“They’re never going to find it,” Derek grumbles, watching the action onscreen. He turns to the figure. “Log me onto the Mainframe.”

“No,” she says shortly. “I already told you, they’re on the lookout for you, and they can track everyone on this plane of consciousness. They’d be on you in minutes. More importantly, the only reason this plan is working so far is because they don’t know that we’ve been contacting the boy. From their vantage point, it seems as though his actions are his own, completely without outside influence. If I log you on, our cover will be blown.”

Derek paces back and forth frustratedly. “Well we can’t just sit here and do nothing.” He pauses, an idea dawning upon him. “Wait.” He wheels around, brow crinkled in thought. “Can I tap into his thoughts?”

The figure sighs irritatedly, as if he’s an idiot for not having this all figured out in _two fucking days._ “It’s _all_ thoughts, Derek. The Mainframe does not exist, except-”

“Except on a mental level,” Derek interrupts impatiently. “I fucking get that.” He points at the screen. “But you said there are two levels of consciousness. _That_ right there, what we’re seeing now, and a deeper level of dreams.” He holds up a finger when she makes a noise like she’s about to speak, silently willing her to let him finish. “But what about their thoughts. Right now. Their thoughts right now.” He waves a hand at the screen, struggling to explain himself. “Okay, look. For lack of a better term, they’re awake now, and these mental projections that they _think_ are their real bodies are wandering around the forest...”

He trails off, and the figure crosses her arms, leaning back in her rolling chair. “Right so far,” she prompts tonelessly.

“We can monitor those mental projections, obviously. We’re looking at them right now.” He taps a finger on the desk emphatically, triumphantly. “But what about their thoughts? What’s going in inside their heads? Do you understand what I mean?”

The figure pauses, tilting forward in her chair. “Yes,” she murmurs. “Yes I do.” She looks up at the screen. “You’re talking about the level of consciousness in between lucid projections and surreal fantasies.”

Derek stares at her. “Okay, so _now_ there’s a third level. You didn’t think that, maybe, that might be worth telling me?”

She waves him off. “Hardly worth mentioning. It’s virtually impossible to tap into.”

“Virtually?” Derek presses, staring her down.

The figure hesitates, studies his face carefully. “It’s never been done,” she says after some time. “It would put a great deal of strain on your mind to try, and you’re still fragile.” Derek growls, but she silences him with a raised palm. “That’s not a criticism, it’s just honest fact.”

Derek chews on his lower lip, glances back at the monitor, resolve settling in. “But it’s possible,” he presses, not phrasing it as a question.

“It’s a risk,” she answers, but she’s already pulling out her keyboard, knowing that his mind is made up. “You could do some damage to your brain, and that would set us behind in a way we’re not prepared for.”

Derek’s already sitting in the chair, pulling the strap tight around his bicep, yanking down the wires to tape against his neck. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right,” he says firmly. “No more pussyfooting around.”

The figure starts typing out the code. “Don’t blame me if this goes wrong,” she mutters. “Whatever happens is entirely on you.”

“Fine,” Derek deadpans, bringing the yellow cord down to hook into the wirejack. “Just do it.”

The chair begins its eerie vibration, wires glowing as they thrum alongside his slick skin. He screws his eyes shut as the figure finishes the code.

She hits the blue button.

***

Stiles’ vision whites out and he gasps out in pain, dropping the shotgun to the forest floor and falling to his knees. He can vaguely make out Danny calling his name in concern, can feel a firm hand touching down on his shoulder, but it’s all secondary to the throbbing ache in his head.

He sees a series of images flash before his eyes:

[Curled up naked and warm in an enclosure of pulsating redness, standing in the hallway with a faceless boy, walking up a spiral staircase and entering a room where-]

His vision returns and the pain disappears, gone as quickly as it came. There’s a gentle ringing in his ears as Danny helps him to his feet. He blinks rapidly, clearing his thoughts as he chokes out ragged breaths.

“Jesus, are okay?” Danny is rubbing circles on his back, eyes wide with concern.

Stiles nods, bends down shakily to lift the shotgun from the ground. “Uh huh. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

Danny watches him warily, then reaches out to take the firearm from him. “I’ll just carry that for a while,” he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

“That’s...probably for the best,” Stiles agrees grudgingly, rubbing his arm.

Then:

[ _Stiles?_ ]

He freezes. It’s not a voice. There’s no sound, no one around. But it’s a word, and it’s in his head; his own name spoken aloud by the thoughts of another. He knows instinctively that it’s not his own brain.

“What...” he whispers out loud, voice shaky.

Already starting off down the path, Danny stops abruptly, turning back and gripping Stiles’ shoulder like he’s afraid he’ll fall again. “What is it it?”

Stiles shakes his head, putting a finger to his lips. He holds on to Danny’s arm, urging him to stand still. Inside his head, he thinks, _Yes?_

It comes again:

[ _Stiles, can you hear me?_ ]

Stiles’ fingers clench Danny’s shirt tighter, his jaw twitching. It’s Derek. He knows it. He can feel it in his bones.

_Derek?_

[ _Yes. Stiles, look ahead._ ]

He looks, jaw dropping at the sight. There’s a trail of electric mist weaving its way down the forest trail. It’s illuminated by golden light from within, blown wide and shimmering with particles of dust, all interconnected with tendrils of static lightening.

It’s in his head, he knows. He’s not actually _seeing_ it with his eyes; just the eye of the mind. But in that moment, it feels essentially the same.

“There,” he says, licking his dry lips, lifting a hand to point along the trail.

Danny looks decidedly worried now. “There, what?” he asks hesitantly.

Stiles releases his shoulder, moving off down the path, hand coming up to his side to graze the perimeter of the mist. He feels a little shock run down his arm, and he barks out a short laugh, a sound of awe. “I can see,” he murmurs wonderingly. He turns over his shoulder, beckoning for Danny to follow. “I can see,” he repeats. “I know where to go.”

There’s a tight feeling in his head, a sensation like something coming unscrewed, and then the presence of Derek is gone. He can’t feel it anymore, and he can no longer see the golden trail. But he knows where it leads.

Its memory is imprinted forever on his brain.

***

Derek spasms, hands twitching with nervous energy as he comes to.

The figure is hovering at his side, dabbing the sweat off his brow with a warm, wet washcloth. “I can’t believe that worked,” she says, and though her hand is steady, she sounds genuinely shaken. “How is that possible?"

“It was like I was literally inside his head,” Derek gasps, pupils dilated, breathing shallow. His eyes flicker up to the screen, watching as Stiles and Danny trudge through the dead leaves of the woods, moving purposefully now, with intent. “It was like I was looking out at the world through his eyes.”

The figure places her hand against his cheek, and Derek shivers at the cool touch of the metallic finger caps. He looks up into those soulless silver eyes. “It wasn’t real,” she says firmly. “Don’t lose sight of that.”

Derek snorts, even though his hands are still trembling. “I know that. You’ve been repeating it pretty much nonstop.”

But the figure grips his face harder, forcing him to look at her. “There are multiple types of knowing,” she says. “You can understand something on an intellectual level without the knowledge of experience.” She removes her hand, backing off to give him space. “Like hang gliding. You know what it is, you know the basic idea of how it works. But have you ever done it yourself? Can you ever really know what hang gliding _is_ unless you’ve actually experienced it.” Derek’s mouth works soundlessly, but before he can say anything, she continues, “It’s not real, Derek. Just relax. You’re home now.”

Derek jolts, startled, as the fluorescent lights suddenly glow red, flashing on and off rapidly. A loud alarm noise blares in his ear, and he claps his hands to the side of his head in an attempt to drown out the sound.

The figure stiffens, looking around. She goes to the keyboard and types out a quick sequence, and the monitors all change camera views. Derek sees that they no longer display vantage points around Beacon Hills, but rather various checkpoints in the cavern and outside in the rainstorm.

“What’s happening?” he asks sharply, yanking the cord out of the wirejack with a wince. “Is something wrong?”

“Damn it,” the figure grumbles to herself, and Derek’s eyes widen as he sees what she’s looking at. 

On the central monitor - a camera viewpoint from the top of the mountain peak, surveying the vast expanse of ocean - there is a gigantic flying ship emerging from the mist. A mechanical monstrosity molded in the shape of of a gargantuan moth, the behemoth’s twisted metal wings vibrate with the speed and energy of a humming bird. The wind whips up the water beneath, sending ripples through the churning waves. The fog clears in its path.

It is headed straight for the island.

“They’ve found us,” the figure announces, pointing out the obvious as she types out a rapid series of code into the keyboard.

_Self-destruct sequence initiated_ , a monotone computerized voice announces.

Derek’s heart is slamming up against his ribcage. “What do we do?”

“Come with me. Now.” She grips his wrist, tugging him along as she straps the duffel bag full of guns over her shoulder.

The red glow flashes in their eyes like a strobe light as they exit out into the darkness of the cavern. The door closes behind them, but Derek can still see the glimmering countdown sequence flickering in the seams of the metal frame.

They round the bend at the top of the passageway, and the sound of rain is overpowered by the ear-shattering hum of the great flying ship as it settles on the mountain peak above them.

“Run!” the figure shouts at him, releasing his wrist as she charges full-speed for the dock. “Get to the boat!”

Derek barrels after her, legs still shaky from his trip to the Mainframe. He thinks he can hear voices yelling behind him, but the sound is soon drowned out by the deafening rumble of an explosion from within the cavern. Derek’s feet fail beneath him, and he finds himself being flung headlong into a boulder, back practically cracking against the hard stone as the mouth of the cave belches forth fire and smoke and the mound of rock begins to crumble into rubble.

The flying ship is aloft once more, moving away from the disintegrating peak and hovering over the water. Derek realizes with a thrill of panic that he can see silver-masked faces staring out at him from portholes in the sides of the ship.

Thick, dark cords of rope come twisting down from the belly of the beast, and with them come black-garbed men and women, all dressed much like the figure herself. They come down to a halt on the pile of pebbles, looking in Derek’s direction.

He scrambles to his feet, limping as quickly as his feet will allow towards the dock. The figure is halfway through the circular door, beckoning him wildly. “Hurry!” he thinks he hears her shout over the din.

For a second there, he thinks he might actually make it. His footsteps even out as he reaches the edge of the water and steps out onto the rickety dock. But then there’s a sharp sting in his back, and he reaches around instinctively. And when he withdraws his hand, there’s a large purple dart lying in his palm, an empty vial with feathered edges.

His vision swims before his eyes, and as he sinks to his knees, he sees the figure closing the top of the torpedo-shaped submarine, and he watches as the metallic surface slips beneath the murky waves and out of sight.

The last thing he registers before darkness overtakes him is the feeling of strong cold arms wrapping around his chest, claiming him as a captive.

***

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Stiles says softly as they stand together in the center of the clearing, gazing down the slope into the darkness of the tunnel beneath the oak tree. “I don’t know how any of this is happening. But I have a really bad feeling that if we go past this point...if we take this next step, there’s not going to be another chance to turn back.” He twists his neck, looking at Danny. “So I need to know now. Are you sure you want to do this? Are you with me?”

Danny’s jaw is set, clenched into a strong line. “Yes,” he whispers, steady but nervous. 

The mouth of the tunnel yawns. Strands of moss hang down low like spindly green teeth at the entrance of a deep gullet.

Stiles takes a deep breath, holds out his palm. “Give me the gun,” he says. “I’ll go first.”

Danny hands it over. “Good luck,” he murmurs.

Stiles flicks the safety on and sets the shotgun down on the ground in front of him so that he can push it along the length of the tunnel. He crouches to his knees, taking another breath before pressing headfirst into the enclosed space.

He’s never had much of a problem with claustrophobia, but his fear is spiking up tenfold now. The earthen walls of dirt press in roughly against his shoulders, squeezing him tight as he inches his way towards the other end of the underground stretch. The shotgun clatters roughly as it bumps on jagged rocks poking up from the mud, and Stiles wonders absentmindedly how he’s going to clean all of the grime off before returning it to his dad’s lockbox.

Once or twice, he has a moment of panic, terrified that he’s gotten stuck, and he has to close his eyes and count to ten before pushing forward, heaving a sigh of relief as he slips free of the stranglehold. Vines snap in twain beneath his sneakers as he propels himself further and further along.

His heart beats louder with anticipation as he reaches the other side, fisting his hands up into the night sky, pressing down between the roots of another tree as he pulls his body out into the cool air, gasping in the freshness of the wild. He emerges from the ground covered in dirt and filth and grass as if reborn into a new world. The shotgun trembles beneath his fingertips.

“Made it!” he yells back down the length of the tunnel. “I’m okay! It’s pretty scary, but it’s not too bad!”

“Alright, hang on!” Danny calls back, his muffled voice echoing in the narrow space. “Be right there!”

Stiles rubs the dry dust out of his eyes, taking in his surroundings for the first time.

He’s standing in a dark clearing, tall dead trees arrayed in tight circle around him, branches all twisted together like a makeshift fence of woodwork allowing no room for any exit except through the underground tunnel. A shifty-eyed raven blinks down at him from the brambles of a thorn bush up the way, dark eyes dilated, throat pulsing with shuddery breaths. It caws grotesquely and takes off, wings beating an arhythmic pattern into the wind as it disappears into the expanse of stars above.

Stiles looks down and sees a great wooden cabin in the middle of the clearing. A log-formed lodge with a brick-laid chimney pumping soft dark clouds of wispy smoke into the frigid atmosphere. It smells like charcoal and honey, and the warmth emanating from the gentle lantern glow of the porch light is enticing.

Taking it all in, Stiles glances down at the maw of the tunnel as Danny’s shuffling sounds grow nearer. “Almost there,” he calls encouragingly.

Looking back up, he squints at the lodge once more.

He sees that the logs are painted red.

Crimson.

[Crimson pulpy cage, pressing up against the edges, trapped in a womb of amniotic fluids.]

Stiles swallows, heartbeat pounding a drumbeat into his head.

_This is it. No turning back now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know it's been ages since this has been updated. I'm sorry, I've just had a lot of work to do, plus other stories that I'm working on. Unfortunately, it will be a while before this is updated again. I can at least promise that I haven't abandoned this fic (I always finish stories I start).


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